


The Best Laid Plans

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Minor Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Minor Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan, POV Multiple, Post-Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Wedding Planning, Weddings, minor side ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester and Ignatz Victor have just announced their engagement. Amidst a whirlwind of stress and preparations, the Golden Deer decide to help plan the wedding. What else are friends for?
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Ignatz Victor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27
Collections: 2020 Ultra Rarepair Big Bang





	The Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, it's here! My collaboration with [Sparrow](https://twitter.com/delinquent) for the [Three Houses Ultra Rarepair Big Bang](https://twitter.com/ultrararepairb1)!
> 
> This is a fic very near and dear to my heart. It started out as a joke between me and Sparrow about the Golden Deer planning a Lorenatz wedding, and the more we talked about it the more we fell in love with this idea. Sparrow and Lorenatz are the reason I got into Three houses so deeply in the first place, so it really feels special that we were able to collaborate on this story and art, and pour so much love into it.

When news of Lorenz Hellman Gloucester’s engagement to Ignatz Victor travels across the former Leicester Alliance, it feels as if half of Fódlan shows up at the Gloucester estate to celebrate. In reality, it is only a small handful of their closest friends – but the sheer volume of their cheer and excitement would make anyone think otherwise.

“We’re so glad you could make it!” Ignatz greets, reaching out to clasp Hilda’s hands as she leans over and kisses his cheeks one at a time. He does the same to Leonie, Lysithea, and Marianne in turn as they pass him, following Hilda like some kind of entourage.

“Oh, Ignatz, we wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Hilda says, beaming widely and skipping ahead of him. 

“Yeah; it’s not every day your friends get engaged,” Leonie agrees. “Or throw the biggest party in all of Fódlan for it.”

“Yes, well, you know Lorenz.” Ignatz smiles sheepishly, cheeks turning pink as he gestures for them to follow him into the estate, where servants of House Gloucester are putting the finishing touches on the Great Hall’s decor. 

“I’m surprised the whole territory isn’t celebrating,” Lysithea says. She looks up at the grand arching doorways with awe, eyes shining as she drinks in the details. 

Ignatz laughs. “I, um, had to talk him out of it,” he says, again a touch sheepish. “But in the end, he agreed that a smaller celebration would be more worthwhile.” 

“Does that mean we’re the only ones coming?” Marianne asks. Even after all this time, the relief is clear in her voice. Though she is now known throughout the former Leicester Alliance as a brilliant politician, Ignatz supposes some things never change. 

He nods. “Yes, just the Golden Deer. We asked the professor, but…” 

“I suppose that being the king of all of Fódlan means he doesn’t get a lot of time to himself.” Lysithea shrugs. “More cake for me, then.” 

“So, does that mean Raphael is already here?” Hilda asks. “I’ve been dying to hear about what his sister thought of the earrings I sent her…” 

“What’s that about Maya?” 

Raphael emerges from around a corner. Before him is a cart full of food, his large hands on the bar to push it forward. Lysithea’s eyes are drawn to the dessert plate immediately, but nobody seems to pay it much mind – they are all, thankfully, far more focused on Raphael.

“You’re here!” Hilda squeaks, throwing herself at him, only to pull back the second she makes contact with his chest. “And… sweaty.” 

“Yeah! I’m not gonna miss my daily workout just because I’m helping my buddies,” Raphael says, cheerful as ever.

Hilda seems unimpressed. “You could _at least_ bathe when you’re done.” 

“But then I’m just gonna get all sweaty again after hanging up the decorations!” 

“He’s right, you know,” Leonie says. Hilda pouts. 

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Raphael,” Ignatz says. “You’ve already done enough. And Lorenz, ah…” 

“Let me guess,” Leonie says, a tiny little smirk on her face. “He’s been fussing about every little thing from dawn ‘til now. Has he been taking everything down and re-doing it?” 

“Something like that, yes,” Ignatz admits. 

Marianne giggles. “That certainly sounds like him,” she says. And, in spite of the gentle ribbing his friends are bestowing upon his fiancé, Ignatz laughs, too. 

“Doesn’t it, though?” His smile is warm and bright as he fondly regards his friends: Leonie, examining her surroundings with an appraising eye; Hilda and Marianne, side-by-side and smiling; Lysithea, trying to sneak a cake from Raphael’s cart, only to have him wrap his arms around her middle and pick her up effortlessly.

Ignatz’s eyes prickle with tears. He had missed them all so very dearly. 

* * *

He leads them to the main courtyard. House Gloucester’s servants are busy preparing for the evening’s festivities, trimming hedges and rearranging lanterns. Tables have been set up around the perimeter, draped with fine linens and decorated with flower petals.

Sunlight glitters on the surface of a flat, shallow pool of water, reflecting across the bushes and giving the illusion that the roses adorning them are sparkling themselves. Each one has been meticulously manicured and sectioned off by stone arches, creating a number of small walkways from the quiet, contained centre of the courtyard to the more open, grassy expanses of its outer ring.

“Wow,” Hilda breathes as they pass under an archway and onto the stone tile surrounding the small pool. “And I thought _my_ family’s courtyard was elaborate.” 

“Mine, too,” Lysithea agrees. 

Leonie scoffs. “You nobles and your fancy homes.” She approaches the pool with Marianne and taps it with the toe of her boot. “How many times do you think Lorenz was pushed into this as a kid?” 

“Leonie!” In spite of herself, Marianne giggles behind her hand. Ignatz laughs, too. 

“It is a bit much to get used to,” he admits. “And I’m afraid I still haven’t. I’ve lived here a few months now, and I’m always so awestruck by the beauty of this place. Hours and hours of capturing this courtyard on the canvas and I still forget just how amazing it is.” 

“You’re a lucky man, Ignatz Victor,” Leonie says. 

“I assure you, luck has nothing to do with it.” 

Together, six heads turn toward the courtyard’s entrance. Each face lights up in turn, but none so brightly as Ignatz’s as his fiancé walks toward them, head held high and a proud, elegant smile upon his lips. 

“Lorenz,” Ignatz greets, breathless and fond. He walks forward; Lorenz receives him, taking him by the hand and kissing it softly. 

“Ignatz, my love.” Lorenz wraps an arm around him, and together, the two of them face their guests. “You should have told me everyone had arrived! I could hardly stand the anticipation of waiting another moment.” 

“Sorry,” Ignatz says, though it’s perhaps more an automatic response than a sincere one – the blush on his face and the shy little smile he gives Lorenz betray him. “I was just so excited to show them around, and I assumed you were still busy with the preparations.” 

“Nonsense.” Lorenz does not seem all that bothered by the apology, or by the excuse; Ignatz relaxes minutely. “I am always happy to make time for our friends.” 

“Aww, how sweet,” Hilda coos. 

“Touching,” Leonie agrees, perhaps a touch sarcastically. 

“We’re happy to make time for you, too!” Raphael says. He claps Lorenz on the shoulder, accidentally pushing him hard enough that he stumbles and his hand is almost wrenched from Ignatz’s grip. Ignatz holds him tighter and resists the powerful urge to laugh. 

“Yes, well,” Lorenz says, clearing his throat to diffuse any awkwardness from his clumsy display. “Apologies are in order for not meeting you right away, all the same. But I trust my fiancé has received you all quite well?” 

Every time he says that word, that one simple word – _fiancé_ – Ignatz feels a wonderful, swooping rush of warmth swirl in his chest and a familiar pleasant surge of heat colour his cheeks. And Lorenz sounds so _happy_ saying it, too, as if the word were made of joyous laughter he must fight to suppress. 

“Oh, yes,” Hilda says, interrupting Ignatz’s thoughts in that voice he has come to know all too well: the voice she uses when she wants something. He catches her and Lysithea exchange a look. “But there is one teensy-tiny little thing…” 

“Yes, one crime against hospitality that we simply cannot abide,” Lysithea chimes in, picking up her train of thought.

Ignatz groans. He knows _exactly_ where this is going.

And, sure enough: “There were no sweets set out to welcome us!” 

Lorenz places a hand over his chest, mock-affronted. “No sweets! It would seem we have failed to be adequate hosts after all, Ignatz.” 

“It truly is a shame,” Ignatz agrees.

“We will simply have to make it up to you. I will have someone bring a plate of cakes to each of your suites.” 

“Some sweets for our suites?” Leonie smirks. Raphael laughs, giving her a ‘good one!’ and clapping her on the shoulder, too. She holds her ground much more gracefully than Lorenz. 

“Clever.” Lorenz shakes his head, but it’s clear from the smile on his face that he, too, had missed their friends’ ribbings. “If you are all quite finished, then please, allow me to show you where you will all be staying.” 

* * *

The party itself doesn’t begin until sunset, once the courtyard is bathed in the golden glow of the twilight hour. Lanterns lined with coloured glass have been lit and set around the lip of the small pool; each small dining table has been adorned with smaller lanterns, casting a multitude of soft, tinted lights over the white linens. It's every bit as colourful as the grooms-to-be, and Hilda supposes she should have expected as much.

She and Marianne enter the courtyard together, arm-in-arm. Marianne's gown, commissioned by Hilda herself, flows loose and light around her, her long, full skirt cascading around her legs and brushing against the ground in a blue-and-gold dance. Hilda's dress is shorter in the front, cut at an angle high enough to allow her more movement, but modest enough to fit in at this sort of party. The high neckline contrasts with the sheer golden shawl she has chosen, which she has decided to wrap around Marianne for the time being.

"It's too warm right now," she says by way of excuse as their heels click in time with one another. "Besides, it matches your dress better than mine."

Which is true enough, but not the entire reason she's offered it. Marianne grants her a smile – far more common now than it had been during the war, but no less beautiful for it – and wraps the shawl tighter around herself.

They pass by the small string quartet setting up for the evening's performance, and slow when they pass under one of the small arches, taking in the sight of the other guests. There are more than Hilda would have expected for such a supposedly intimate affair, but there still aren't too many, all things considered. Most of them are, undoubtedly, members of Ignatz and Lorenz's family, and perhaps a handful of close friends from Gloucester.

"There don't seem to be many political guests," Hilda points out.

"Oh, good." Marianne lets out a breath through her nose. "I wasn't looking forward to having to speak about my adoptive father's retirement..."

They come to their table, one of the larger ones set out: where most of the tables look to be for couples or small groups, this one is large enough to seat eight. Two of said seats are already occupied by Lysithea and Leonie.

"We were wondering when you were going to show up," Lysithea says. She smirks as she folds her arms over her chest, her thin, wide-cut sleeves draping over the lavender material of her gown. Lysithea has not looked like a child for some time now, but like this, with her intricately-embroidered dress, cut to emphasize her modest curves and highlight her pale, flawless skin, she looks the very picture of wisdom and nobility.

Lorenz would be jealous.

"Now, now," Leonie cuts in, her voice just this side of teasing. "You know how much time and effort goes into looking good. I bet Hilda here waited until the last minute, got Marianne to try and do her makeup, then got fed up and did everything herself."

Marianne bursts into laughter.

"Hey! Hey, that is _not_ – Marianne, stop laughing!"

She does not stop.

"I – I'm sorry, Hilda, it's just – she's right, you–"

"Ha! Knew it." Leonie grins as she leans over the table, sharp and smug. Her cufflinks glimmer in the golden light of their table's lantern, drawing Hilda's eye.

And then she realizes: "Oh! Those are mine!"

"Huh?" Leonie follows her gaze down to her sleeves, rolled up to just below her elbows, and she smiles. "You remember these?"

"Of course I do!" Hilda says, all her earlier irritation gone. "I made them special for you, after all."

"Right! To match my necklace." Leonie beams, her hand coming up to brush against the poor, worn-out accessory peeking out from under her collar. Leonie has left the first few buttons of her shirt open, a thin, untied tie hanging under her collar. She's draped a patterned gold suit jacket over her shoulders, lined with expensive-looking black material to match her slacks.

Hilda whistles lowly as she reaches out to touch it, unable to help herself. "Wow. You really cleaned up nice," she says.

"I... can't tell if that was meant to be a compliment or not," Leonie says. But before Hilda gets a chance to answer, she's interrupted by something large, heavy, and full of food being set down on the table.

"Raphael," Lysithea hisses, "We were supposed to wait to get our food."

"Were we?" Raphael asks. "But it was just sitting there! And there's soooo much; I don't think anyone's gonna miss a little bit..."

"That's more than a little bit," Lysithea says, but she plucks a slice of fruit off the plate and shoves it into her mouth anyway.

Hilda laughs. "Aw, it's okay, Raphael, we'll make sure you don't get in any trouble," she says as she gives him a once-over.

Raphael is in a remarkably well-fitted suit, considering his size and how many shirts he'd torn open back when they'd attended Garreg Mach. It looks as if it’s been custom-made, cut exactly to flatter his frankly ridiculous proportions. And it's in the loveliest gold, with a strangely familiar pattern...

"Oh!" Marianne gasps, hiding the surprised gape of her mouth behind her hand. "You and Leonie match!"

"Yup!" Raphael puts his hands on his hips, beaming proudly.

"We got our suits made at the same time," Leonie explains. "I happened to be passing through Raphael's hometown on a job, and I ended up staying at his inn. He told me about a tailor in town, and how he was getting a suit made for Ignatz and Lorenz's wedding..."

"...And then I told her about all the extra material we had, 'cause we bought too much," Raphael adds.

"Nobody has any idea what size clothing Raphael wears, apparently."

"I can't help it if my muscles don't want to stop growing," Raphael says. "So anyway, I know Leonie hates wasting stuff, so I asked if she wanted the extra material, and we ended up going to the tailor together to get her a jacket made with it."

"Raphael paid for the whole thing!" Leonie grins at him.

"Aw, I figured it was the least I could do since you helped us get rid of those rats. Maya called you her hero for weeks after that! Anyone who makes my little sis that happy deserves a favour or two."

"Speaking of which, is that who the last seat is for?" Hilda asks.

"Huh? Oh, no, she and Grandpa decided to stay back to take care of the inn," Raphael says. "But wait, there are three empty seats. Who are the others for?"

"Ignatz and Lorenz, obviously," Lysithea snaps. "Weren't you paying attention when Lorenz went over this earlier?

Raphael at least has the decency to look sheepish. "I tried, but I was just so hungry... and you know how I get when I haven't eaten."

Lysithea rolls her eyes, a ragged sigh ripping itself from her throat. "Fortunately for you, you didn't miss much else. They didn't mention who the last seat was for."

"I assumed it would be for Claude," Marianne says. All four sets of eyes turn to her. Hilda almost laughs.

"You think Claude will show up?" Leonie asks, hopeful.

"I doubt it," Lysithea says. "He's off in Almyra, isn't he? I hear being king is a busy job. That's why the professor isn't here tonight, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Hilda agrees. "As much as I'd love to see my dear old Claude again, I don't think he'll be gracing us with his presence tonight."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Leonie says. "You know how Claude is..." 

But they're spared from any further conjecture by the sound of violins starting up. All chatter in the vicinity dies down as the party guests turn their attentions to the courtyard entrance to watch the men of the hour emerge, arm in arm and hands clasped between them, from between the great wrought-iron gates.

Ignatz and Lorenz look stunning in the low light of the setting sun. They're dressed lightly despite the formality of their attire: Lorenz in a dark, high-collared shirt and cream-white cravat, long sleeves ending in narrow cuffs and a rose pinned to his breast; and Ignatz with wider, open sleeves, concealed on one side by a half-mantle thrown over his shoulder. They smile at each other as they walk down the path, Ignatz leaning up and Lorenz leaning down to rub their noses together, smiles on their face widening as their worlds narrow down to nothing but each other and the music.

Quiet applause sound out as they move ever closer, and once they approach the archway, the two of them break apart from one another to bestow their attention upon their guests.

Lorenz steps forward first, clearing his throat and beaming at the crowd.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," he begins, that noble orator voice of his booming just as it had in war councils all those many years ago. "My beloved Ignatz and I are honoured to welcome you into our home."

Another short burst of polite applause. Lorenz holds up his hand to stay them, and continues: "It brings us both great pleasure to see all our dearest friends and family gathered in order to celebrate..."

Suddenly, a heavy gust of wind beats down on them all from above. Lorenz pauses his speech to brace himself against it – and then a second, more powerful gust – while Ignatz moves to his side to hold him steady. Their eyes turn upward, seeking out the source of the sudden wind, and –

Hilda looks up too. "No _way_."

A shadow passes in front of the setting sun, temporarily blocking out the last of the day's light before quickly restoring it. Said shadow is suspiciously wyvern-shaped; and sure enough, when the dust settles and the wind stops beating down on the party guests, a great white wyvern has landed upon the courtyard's grass.

"Sorry I'm late!" comes a familiar voice, accompanied by a familiar figure sliding from the wyvern's saddle. Claude von Riegan – or rather, King Khalid of Almyra – alights upon the ground with a quiet laugh and a trademark grin, raising his hands in a lazy salute to greet the gawking party guests.

"Yes, well – ahem." Lorenz clears his throat. Hilda turns her delighted gaze away from Claude to watch him try (and fail) to school his disgruntled expression into something more neutral. "As happy as I am that you have decided to show up after all, Claude, could you not have waited until _after_ our introduction to do so?"

* * *

The rest of Lorenz's speech is delivered without incident. He ends it by giving yet more thanks to his guests before he bids them all enjoy the food and company for the rest of the evening.

Of course, Claude sits through it all with a smile on his face, just waiting for Lorenz to drag him off and give him the earful he undoubtedly deserves. And he gets it, not long after the speech concludes and Lorenz's more eager guests approach to greet the happy couple more personally.

"You know, Lorenz," Claude says, clapping his friend on the shoulder as soon as he's aired every last grievance on his very long list. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I missed you."

Lorenz stops short. He stutters, face red, and Ignatz laughs as he wraps an arm around his fiancé. "I – yes. Well. I suppose I... missed you, too."

"It's good to see you again, Claude," Ignatz says.

Claude smiles. It's good to be back among friends.

* * *

"Oh, Claaaaude!" Hilda beckons him to back to the table with a wide, sweeping arm gesture. "Don't tell me you were just about to try and abandon your sweet, precious Hilda _again_!"

“Oh no, you caught me,” Claude drawls, even as he makes his way over to her with his plate full of food. Hilda seems to have almost finished hers, but the few remaining bites on her plate don’t stop her from picking a candied plum from Claude’s plate and popping it into her mouth. 

“Hey!” 

“Oh, hush,” Hilda says around her mouthful. “You had too many anyway.” 

Claude wants to point out that no, he hadn’t, he’d had just enough, but figures his protest would be pointless now.

Besides, Hilda clearly wants something from him. It’s best to make this as quick and painless as possible – but that doesn’t stop him from taking a stuffed mushroom from her plate in retaliation. 

He takes a seat next to her. She’s alone, currently; Raphael and Lysithea are by two of the many food tables, helping themselves to more meat and desserts respectively; Marianne has excused herself to help Claude’s wyvern to the stables with Leonie; Ignatz and Lorenz are chatting with some of the other guests. It’s the perfect opportunity for a clandestine chat, and Claude finds himself fondly reminded of the old days, sneaking out of lectures to gossip about Professor Manuela’s latest heartbreak. 

Perhaps that’s all this is, then: a chance to catch up. Claude would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious what Fódlan’s latest gossip is, but he decides to wait for Hilda to offer it up to him. 

She makes a grab for the bottle of wine that someone had set on the table some time ago; it’s half-full, but she quickly reduces it to a quarter of its contents by filling Claude’s glass and topping off her own. 

“So!” she starts, leaning coyly on her elbow. “That was quite the entrance you made.” 

Claude raises a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re going to chew me out for being late, too. I got enough of that from Lorenz.” 

“Oh, no, I’d never,” Hilda says. A blatant lie, but Claude decides to hear her out rather than call her on it. “I thought it was brilliant. Lorenz looked like he was ready to _explode_.”

“Ha! For a moment there, I thought he might.” 

“But I am curious about _why_ you were so late…” 

Of course. Claude had hoped he would be able to direct Hilda’s attention away from himself, but apparently that's too much to ask. Not that he can blame her – he fully intends to have her inform him of everything going on in Fódlan his spies wouldn't have been interested in finding out.

All the same, that doesn't mean he can't have a little bit of fun.

"That..." Claude starts, reaching for his wine glass and pulling it to him it by the stem. "...Can be blamed on your brother."

"Holst? What does he..." Hilda's eyes widen. "No. Claude, _please_ don't tell me you brought Nader along."

"Then I won't tell you." Claude shrugs with one shoulder and swirls his wine. "But you can't expect a king to travel alone."

"And I expect that means Nader is with Holst at the Throat now." Hilda contemplates her own glass of wine, staring into it as if she wants to dive in and drown herself.

"Probably."

"Ugh, stop! You know he's with Balthus, right?"

"Yes, and I hear they're very happy," Claude says. He lifts his wine, presses his lips to the rim of the glass, but does not yet take a sip. "I _also_ hear they're quite open to guests..."

"Nope! No, no, uh-uh, I'm done talking about this." Hilda throws back her wine like it's a shot of hard liquor, throat bobbing as she gulps it down. She slams the glass back down on the table so hard Claude worries it might shatter, but apparently Count Gloucester has sprung for the sturdy stuff.

"You're the one who asked," Claude says before finally taking a sip. It’s good – seems Count Gloucester has also sprung for the good wine.

"And now I regret everything." Hilda leans bodily on the table, arms stretched out in front of her. She looks most unladylike, but Claude decides not to point it out, if only because the little smile she wears intrigues him. "You really know how to make a girl second-guess herself, you know? And here I was going to tell you I missed you."

"How sweet."

"I know, right? I make myself sick sometimes."

Claude snickers. "Okay, enough of that," he says. He tops off her glass as a courtesy. "What is it you really want to say?"

Hilda sits up slowly, dragging a part of the tablecloth with her. It wrinkles under her fingers, but she quickly smooths it back out before lifting her newly-refilled glass. "Oh, nothing. I'm just surprised you made it after all. This wedding must be a big deal if the King of Almyra himself has decided to deign us with his presence.”

It’s sarcasm, and Claude knows it, but he decides it’s more fun to answer as if Hilda were sincere. “Are you kidding?” he asks. “Lorenz is finally going to get laid; I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

"Classy as ever, Claude." Hilda rolls her eyes. She watches as Lorenz leans down to rub noses with Ignatz some distance away, a smile on both of their faces.

"Ugh," she groans. "They're disgusting."

"Agreed." Claude makes a face. "But I've never seen either of them so happy."

"...You think this means Alliance roundtable meetings will go a lot more smoothly now that Lorenz has someone to keep him relaxed?" 

"Oh, Hilda." Claude taps his forehead. "The Alliance doesn't exist anymore, remember? But yes. I've got a lot riding on it, in fact."

Hilda grins. "That's my Claude!" she says, raising her glass. "But seriously, do _not_ bring your Almyran political schemes into this, or I’ll break your arms."

"Deal." They clink glasses. 

* * *

The engagement party ends well. Everyone goes to bed with full stomachs, warm hearts, and the kind of pleasant, relaxed smiles that only good wine can grant.

And so, buoyed by a good night’s sleep and the prospect of a second good meal, Claude strides into the Gloucester estate’s dining hall early in the morning. Sitting around the table are Marianne, Lysithea, and Raphael, all helping themselves to the wide array of breakfast foods spread across it. Slumping over the table, rather than sitting at it, are Leonie and Hilda. 

Claude takes a seat between them, placing a hand atop each of their heads and ruffling their hair. “Good morning, you two! Did you sleep well?”

“Ughhh,” Hilda groans. 

“Shut up, Claude.” 

“Hey, that’s no way to talk to a dear old friend,” Claude chides. He winks at Marianne and Lysithea, who are watching the exchange with interest, and grins when Lysithea rolls her eyes and Marianne looks away pretending not to be amused. 

“I said shut _up_ , Claude!” Leonie sits up, fixing him with the kind of glare that may have made him back down were it not for the deep, dark bags under her eyes. Fortunately, he’s saved from her wrath by Ignatz and Lorenz, whose voices outside the grand doors herald their arrival. 

“–then perhaps we should change the date?” Ignatz asks. His tone is worried, fretting, so much like he used to sound back in their academy days.

Needless to say, Claude’s interest is piqued. 

“Oh, no,” Hilda murmurs, but whether it’s because she sees the look on Claude’s face or because she dreads having to listen to Lorenz, it’s hard to say. 

The happy couple appear in the doorway, engrossed in conversation. The pinch between Ignatz’s brows and the troubled frown on Lorenz’s face does nothing to quell Claude’s mounting curiosity, but he stays quiet so that he can listen to whatever it is Lorenz is saying.

“Oh, goodness, no – changing the date at this point will cause more problems than it will solve, I am afraid. But be at peace, my love; we will discuss this at a later date.” He straightens up, clearing his throat and once again assuming the poise and manner of a refined noble. 

“Good morning, my friends!” Lorenz declares, the frown on his face vanishing the instant he sees the former Golden Deer gathered around the table. “I trust all of you slept–” 

“Don’t you start with me too,” Leonie snaps. And Claude, unable to resist teasing one of his oldest and dearest friends, pats her on the back. 

“Don’t mind Leonie,” he says, grinning up at Lorenz. “She’ll be back to her usual sunny self as soon as the hangover wears off.” 

“Ha ha, very funny. Hey, Lysithea, how steep do you think the penalty is for committing regicide?” 

“Against a foreign king?” Lysithea smirks, her eyes running over Claude in a way that makes him feel like an insect under a glass. “Normally I’d say the stocks, but since it’s Claude, you might end up hailed as a national hero.” 

That, at least, gets a laugh out of Leonie. Everyone else, too – even Claude, in spite of himself. “You wound me, Lysithea, you really do.”

Laughter ebbing, Ignatz and Lorenz take their seats near the head of the table to help themselves to breakfast. Claude watches them, paying careful attention to the way Lorenz’s posture relaxes as he spreads jam over a biscuit, and to the way Ignatz’s smile becomes slowly more genuine as he and Marianne chat about the birds she’d seen in the garden that morning. It’s a careful game Claude is playing, trying to find the right moment to ask what had been troubling them, to find out what sort of problems could have –

“So what were you two arguing about?” 

– Or Raphael can just go ahead and ask. That works, too. 

“Oh! That is nothing to worry yourself over, Raphael,” Lorenz assures him, a hand over his chest as if that will verify the sincerity of his words. “We were simply discussing our plans for the wedding.” 

“Yes. There’s still a lot left we have to do, but it’s fine, really. We knew what we were getting into.” Ignatz’s smile is not particularly reassuring, frayed as it is around the edges. Claude can recognize a false smile when he sees one, but he also knows when to keep his mouth shut, so once again, he elects to keep silent.

“Oh, I bet,” Hilda says, sparing him the trouble of changing the subject. “If your engagement party was that fancy and elaborate, I can only imagine what the wedding is going to be like. It’s going to be _gorgeous_.” 

“As is expected from the nobility.” Lorenz preens, chest puffed up and chin held high. “And for one of my status…” 

“Here we go,” Leonie mutters around a fond grin. 

“It simply must be the best,” Ignatz finishes. He, too, looks fond, if still a little exasperated. He reaches for Lorenz’s arm, takes it, and gently rubs the crook of his elbow. 

“Aw, don’t worry, Lorenz.” Raphael smiles and takes the liberty of spooning a generous helping of eggs onto his friend’s plate, no doubt the most comforting gesture he can think of. “It’s gonna be perfect no matter what, ‘cause you and Ignatz will have each other, right?” 

Lorenz’s eyes go wide. “I… yes. Yes, quite, Raphael.” 

“Then there you go!”

He smiles, big and bright and cheerful, and the table falls quiet. The rest of their meal is eaten in warm, comfortable silence, until Lorenz and Ignatz are inevitably whisked away to tend to one of their many wedding tasks. Something about guest lists and invitations and former kingdom nobles that Claude doesn’t care to pay attention to in the moment, but will surely think about later. 

For now, he is far more interested in the matter at hand. 

“So!” he starts, dropping his cutlery onto his empty plate to gather everyone’s attention. “We’re helping them, right?” 

He watches his friends’ faces for their reactions. Unsurprisingly, they range from reluctant to excited to downright terrified.

Lysithea is the first to break the stunned silence. “Have you lost your mind, Claude?” she asks, though she seems to have already made up her mind on what the answer is, judging by how she stares at him as if he’s grown two heads. 

“Nope! I’m as sane as ever,” Claude answers. 

“Not reassuring,” Leonie mumbles, to which Marianne and Hilda giggle behind their hands. 

“Then why on earth would you think planning a wedding for those two would be a good idea?” 

“Because–” 

“I think it’s a great idea!” Raphael chimes in. “Ignatz is my best friend. We’ve been through a lot together, so why not this too? I think it’ll be nice to help him out.” 

“Thank you, Raphael,” Claude says. He turns to Lysithea. “He’s right. They’re our friends, and they’ve had our backs more times than we can count. Come on, it’ll be fun.” 

“As always, your definition of ‘fun’ greatly differs from my own.” 

“Actually, I think he’s right, too,” Leonie says. Claude will take it, even if there is a hint of reluctance in her voice. “It’s not every day your friends get married, and knowing Lorenz, the whole thing is bound to be more complicated than it needs to be.” She pauses to think. “...Plus, this way we can save money. If we help plan their wedding, we won’t have to buy them any gifts.” 

“Well, you can count me out,” Hilda says, picking at her nails. “Sounds like an awful lot of work. I’d rather just buy them something.”

Claude rolls his eyes. “As always, Hilda proves to be the most magnanimous of us all.” He turns his gaze on Marianne, and if anyone were to pay close enough attention, they would recognize the shift in his expression from playful and unassuming to sharp and calculating. “What do you think, Marianne?” 

Hilda glares at him. Marianne perks up, smiling the sweet, confident smile none of them would have imagined on her years ago. “I think we should help,” she says. “Even though I’m not sure how much use I would be.” 

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” Claude tells her. “Won’t she, Hilda?”

Hilda’s glare turns into a pout. She sighs wretchedly. “Fine. Fine! I get it; I’ll help. You know you’re all useless without me, anyway.” 

“Great!” Claude claps his hands together. “Then we’ll start planning tomorrow, right after I talk to Lorenz about it.” 

* * *

Claude does not, in fact, speak to Lorenz about it. No – he decides to be smart about this. Going in for the kill before exploiting a weakness has never quite been Claude’s style, and he isn’t about to adopt Faerghan battle tactics now. And if Lorenz has one weakness, it’s the one standing right in front of Claude, sketchbook in hand and chatting with one of the Gloucester servants. 

Claude approaches Ignatz quietly, leaning against an ornate archway as Ignatz discusses wedding decor. Exasperated as he looks, though, he oddly seems to be in his element, too. He’s confident in a way Claude never would have imagined when recalling the shy little deer whose hands had shaken the first time Teach had asked him to demonstrate his skill with a bow. Here, though, he stands tall. Speaks firmly. Doesn’t blush or cower or back down when he’s pushed.

Claude thinks that maybe he can see why Lorenz proposed to him, after all.

“...Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Ignatz says, snapping Claude out of his thoughts. “I have a guest to attend to.” 

“Of course, Master Victor,” the servant says. He retreats with a bow. 

Claude grins, and only just barely manages to quell the urge to reach over and ruffle Ignatz’s hair. “Wow, look at you, all firm and commanding! What was that about?”

“Oh, just wedding stuff,” Ignatz says. “That seems to be all anyone can talk about these days. I know it’s approaching quickly, but…” 

He shakes his head. Claude gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. 

“Sorry to disappoint, then,” he says, “but that’s exactly why I’ve come to speak with you as well.” 

A shadow of Ignatz’s former self crosses over his expression, worry twitching in his brow. “I see. Does this mean you won’t be…” 

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Claude says, certain he knows where this is going. “As I already told Hilda, I wouldn’t miss this wedding for the world. Actually, I came to deliver some good news about it.” 

“Oh?” A hesitant smile pulls at Ignatz’s lips. 

“Yup. Ignatz Victor, I’ve spoken with the Golden Deer, and we’ve decided that we’re going to help you plan your wedding.”

A beat passes. Ignatz’s eye go wide, his tiny smile growing into a large, wobbling, relieved one. “Oh, thank the goddess,” he says, visibly deflating, as if all that had been holding him up at this point was stress and professionalism. “I don’t think I could have taken another day of trying to figure out table placements.”

“Well, you should probably still do that,” Claude says, with a cautious glance behind him. “Otherwise Raphael might get his hands on the guest list, and you know how he is. I don’t think your delightfully charming fiancé would appreciate that the same way I would.”

“...Ah. Yes.” Ignatz casts an uneasy look around, too. “Perhaps that is for the best, then.” 

“But everything else, leave it to us!” 

* * *

True to his word, Claude gathers everyone into the dining hall the next day. It’s not hard to find them, seeing as they’re all staying in the Gloucester estate, but it does take more effort than he would have liked to wrangle them all. He manages eventually, though; even Hilda, who had claimed to have slept in (with her full face of perfect makeup), couldn’t have avoided him forever. 

“All right,” Claude begins, striding into the room with Ignatz and Lorenz in tow. He sets down a tray of tea cakes, a small appeasement for dragging them all here. Ignatz lays a large scroll of parchment out on the table beside it, unfurling it to reveal their mile-long to-do list. 

Eight sets of eyes fall upon it. For how long it is, it is blessedly well-organized and immaculately laid out: the largest tasks are listed near the top, and everything detailed with sub-tasks, each item written in a specific colour of ink. 

“Impressive,” Lysithea says. “Which one of you wrote this up?” 

“Lorenz came up with most of the tasks,” Ignatz says, cheeks pink. “But I wrote them down.” 

“I should have known,” Hilda says. “There’s no way Lorenz would have colour-coordinated this well. You really have a gift, you know, Ignatz?”

Ignatz smiles. “Thanks, Hilda.” 

Marianne leans up, eyes roving over the list. “Um… There’s a lot more here than I thought,” she says. “And I don’t know how much of it I’d really be good at. Do you think it might be best for us to split the tasks up?” 

Claude puts a hand to his chin, thumb stroking his beard slowly. “That’s not a bad idea.” 

“Oooh! I call wedding favours,” Hilda says. 

“Aw, I wanted that one!” Raphael pouts. “I’ve gotten real good at crafts. Maya and I make necklaces together all the time now!” 

Hilda practically beams at him. “Oh, Raphael, that’s adorable!” 

“But maybe not quite right for the delicate work these wedding favours need,” Leonie chimes in. “How about working on the decorations? There’s lots of physical labour _and_ creativity in that, right?” 

“Hey, you’re right!” Raphael grins. “And it’ll be like getting a workout while I work!”

“You did do a spectacular job helping us decorate for the engagement party,” Lorenz says. 

“Then it’s settled! Me and Leonie’ll do decorations.”

“Sounds good to me, partner.” She claps him on the back. 

Hilda hums. “I will still need someone to help me with the wedding favours, though…” 

“I was thinking we could design them together,” Ignatz suggests. 

“Perfect! But you’ll be far too busy to sit down and help me assemble them for hours and hours,” Hilda says. “So… Marianne?” 

Marianne smiles, bright as the sun. “I’d be delighted to help you, Hilda.”

“Great! And I’ll be handling the feast, of course,” Claude says.

“Just make sure there’s lots of meat!” 

“Of course, Raphael. Can I count on you for help with that, then? And Leonie?” 

“You got it, boss. I know all the best local spirits to serve with the food.”

“I’m in too!” 

“Then that leaves…” Claude runs a finger down the list of tasks, looking specifically at the meal plan. “...the cake. Lysithea?” 

Lysithea scoffs and sits up straighter. “About time you found a task suitable to my skills. Lorenz wouldn’t know a good cake if it came up and bit him on his pretentiously noble nose.” 

“I beg your pardon–” 

“Of course I’ll take care of the cake.” 

The snub is perhaps a bit unwarranted, but it earns a snicker from both Claude and Leonie. Even Ignatz has to turn away to hide his laughter. “Good,” Claude says. “Glad we can count on you.”

With a huff, Lorenz turns back to the list. “My own guests, in my own home… hmph. But I suppose with that, all the most pressing and time-consuming tasks have been accounted for. Of course, Ignatz and I will compile the guest list and arrange the seating plans for the reception…” 

“And I’ve already summoned the gardeners to begin discussing flowers and the bouquet,” Ignatz adds. 

“Ah, yes, and we have our first wine tasting tomorrow…” 

The conversation turns into the two of them discussing their schedule for the next few days. Claude rolls up the scroll, passes it off to Hilda, and tells her, “That’s probably all we’re gonna get from them today. I’m entrusting this to you for the time being, Hilda, my darling second-in-command.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Great. Thanks, Claude.”

* * *

Hours later, a knock at the door to his guest room surprises Claude. He looks up from the sheet of paper he’d been furiously scribbling notes upon, eyeing the door across the room. It’s still some time before dinner, and he hadn’t been expecting anyone to call on him, so he has very little idea who could be at the door. An old, familiar fear prickles in the back of his mind, and he finds himself looking for escape routes. 

No. Claude shakes his head to push the apprehension aside. There is no danger here. It’s probably just Hilda, come to exchange more gossip.

He gets up and opens the door. It is not, in fact, Hilda who has come to see him, but…

“Good evening, Claude.” Lorenz stands at the door, posture straight and hand resting at his chest. “I am sorry to disturb you, but there is something I would like to discuss. May I come in?” 

“Of course.” Claude opens the door wider, holding his arm out in a sweeping gesture to invite Lorenz into his own guest room. “You’ll have to excuse me for the lack of preparation. Had I known you were coming, I’d have brewed some tea, set the table…” 

“I see becoming king hasn’t dulled your sense of humour,” Lorenz says, deadpan. He looks around the room with a raised brow. “And I would not have asked you to extend me the courtesies of a host while you are my guest. Though I must ask…” He turns to Claude, a look of near-despair settling over his features. “How did you manage to make such a mess in such a short time?” 

Claude turns around to behold said mess. It isn’t quite as messy as Lorenz claims; the clothes scattered around the room are all his own, and most of them have been draped over chairs. Even the books, papers, ink bottles and quills strewn about the bed and sitting table have been carefully stacked and arranged.

“Is it really that bad?” Claude asks. 

“...For you, perhaps not,” Lorenz relents. “But you still – hold on a moment. Claude, are those books from the Gloucester library?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that,” Claude says, a little too fast. He takes Lorenz by the shoulders and guides him to the sitting table, pushing the papers and ink aside to make space. “I’m just borrowing them; they’ll be back in their proper places before you know it. But that’s not what you came here to talk about, right? Surely you’ve got more important matters to discuss if you’ve come to bother me in my private chambers.” 

“ _Private chambers_ ,” Lorenz repeats, a small snort betraying his amusement. “You do know this is my home, correct?” 

“Of course I do. As if all the gaudy roses everywhere would let me forget it.” Claude nods toward the rather large bouquet that now rests on the chest of drawers. He grins, expecting Lorenz to chide him for being ungrateful, or telling him he still has the same unrefined taste even after all these years, but instead he gets a small, amused chuckle. 

“I suppose ensuring each room was decorated with a lavish bouquet was a bit much,” he concedes. 

“Eh, it’s okay. I found it to be quite charming, actually.” Claude joins Lorenz at the table, sitting across from him and folding his legs one over the other. “But again, that’s not why we’re here.” 

“No, it is not.” Lorenz nods. “I have come to… ask you a favour, actually.” 

He clears his throat. Fidgets. Looks away. Claude tilts his head to the side, a curious frown crossing his face. “Oh?” 

“Yes. I… excuse me. This is not easy for me to say.” 

Now _that’s_ worrying. Claude leans back, looking away to try and hide his sudden unease. “Is this about planning the wedding? Because I talked to Ignatz about it, and he said it would be fine, but I can back off if you–”

“No, no.” Lorenz shakes his head and holds up a hand to silence Claude. “I am grateful for your help. More so than I feel I can even express with words.”

“That’s new.” 

“Claude, please.” Lorenz shakes his head again, sighing with frustration. He runs a hand through his hair, the silken strands falling back into place as soon as his fingers reach the tips. “I am… I would like to ask you to… to be my best man.” 

Claude blinks.

What? 

“You and I have not always… gotten along,” Lorenz continues, apparently taking Claude’s stunned silence as an invitation to explain his choice. “But in recent years, I feel as though we have reached a sort of understanding with one another. You and I both always held the Alliance’s best interests at heart, and I like to think that since the war, even with you in Almyra and me here, we have become… quite close.” 

Lorenz pauses. Claude blinks again. “Uh… Yeah. Wow, Lorenz, I…” 

“There is nobody I would trust above you to be my best man. No greater confidante… and no greater friend.” 

This time, it’s Claude’s turn to fidget. He grins sheepishly, for once unable to look Lorenz in the eye. “This is a lot to take in,” he says, quietly. “But… you’re right. We have become close, haven’t we?” 

Lorenz smiles. “Then do you accept?” he asks. 

Claude smiles right back. “After a speech like that, how can I not? Of course I accept, Lorenz.” 

“Excellent.” Lorenz lowers his head, perhaps a sign of respect, or more likely a sign of relief, judging by the way his shoulders relax. “In that case, I must also ask you to prepare a speech for the wedding day as part of your duties.” 

Ah, there it is. The _real_ reason Lorenz had asked Claude, as opposed to any of their other friends. Claude should have known this was coming. “Quite the scheme, trying to butter me up with flattery before telling me what you really want,” he says with a wink. “And you pulled it off so well, I can’t even be mad.” 

Lorenz stands slowly, the scrape of the chair against the floor hiding his quiet laughter. “I assure you, it was no scheme. Everything I said was true.” 

“Uh huh.” Claude stands, too. “Whatever you say, O noblest of nobles. Now get out of here so I can get a start on my speech.” 

They walk to the door together, Lorenz bowing as Claude opens it. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Oh, but there is one last thing I must ask of you…” 

Claude raises a brow. “And that is…?”

Lorenz grins. “I expect the speech to be flattering, of course!”

And with that, he leaves the room, haughty laughter echoing through the hall in his wake.

* * *

It is a widely-known fact that Hilda Valentine Goneril hates work. It is a lesser-known, but oft-exploited fact, that she is actually quite happy to work if it means making her friends happy. 

And that, she tells herself, is the only reason she’s sitting here today, in one of the Gloucester estate’s many sitting rooms, with charcoal-stained hands and stacks upon stacks of papers in front of her. 

“I’ve been at this for _hours_ ,” she complains, throwing herself bodily over the couch and rolling so she’s on her back. “I don’t think I can come up with another idea to save my life.” 

Marianne, in the small armchair next to her, leans over the table and leafs through the stack of papers. “These are all very nice, Hilda,” she says. “I don’t think you need to come up with anything else.” 

“Oh, Marianne, you’re an angel,” Hilda says. She sits up. “But I can’t decide which one I like best, you know? There are so many options, and none of them are perfect…” 

“What about this one?” Marianne holds up a sketch with three little teacups on it. Each one has a different design drawn on it, with individual notes scribbled down nearby.

“Too much work,” Hilda says. “I thought giving everybody individualized wedding favours would be nice, but that means figuring out who all the guests are and guessing all the things they like. Even I’m not that good.” 

“I see.” Marianne hums. “What about this?”

The next sketch is of little jars, each a different colour and shape. They’re decorated with ribbons and charms and baby’s breath – elaborate, but elegant. Hilda frowns at the drawings. “I liked the idea of this one, but I don’t know what we can put in the jars.” She leans over the table; Marianne sets the sketch down. Hilda draws a circle around one of the jars with her charcoal-smudged finger. 

“Gloucester is known for its agriculture,” Marianne says. “Maybe jam?” 

“But then we have to _make_ the jam,” Hilda says. “And before that, we’d need to find where to get the jars. I can decorate them just fine, but I don’t exactly know how to blow glass.” 

“If we can’t find jars, then what about bags?” Marianne asks, eyes fixed on the sketch. 

“What?” Hilda frowns. “We can’t put jam in bags, Marianne.” 

“No, I mean–” Marianne laughs, and Hilda’s scowl smooths into a tentative smile. “Of course we can’t. But we can find something else, can’t we?” 

“Oh.” Hilda looks down at the sketch again. Switching from jars to little bags _would_ be a lot easier in terms of procuring supplies. It limits their options for what the wedding favours can be, yes, but that’s a small price to pay for the versatility of some good material. Just take a square of fabric, put something in the middle, fold it up and tie it off with a ribbon… 

Hilda’s smile grows. It’s perfect.

“Marianne, you’re a genius,” she says. Now it’s just a matter of deciding what fabrics to use, what colours of ribbon and flowers and beads…

Hilda flips the paper over and reaches for the charcoal. “I’ve got it!” she says. But before she can transfer the idea from her mind to the page, the door at the other end of the room opens and draws her attention away. 

Ignatz and Lorenz enter, and once again, they seem to be embroiled in quiet but agitated discussion. Hilda doesn’t particularly care to listen, but Marianne’s watching them with such concern on her face, she can’t help but get involved if only to smooth the crease between Marianne’s brows. “Everything okay, you two?” 

They stop, looking up and over at Hilda and Marianne as if they’ve only just noticed they aren’t alone. “Oh! Hilda, Marianne.” Ignatz smiles at them sheepishly. “Yes, everything is fine. We were just discussing what sort of wine to serve at the reception.” 

“It is a far more complicated decision than it seems, I am afraid,” Lorenz says with a somber nod. “Balance, depth, what to pair it with…”

Ignatz takes Lorenz’s hand. “Darling, we shouldn’t bore them with the details.” 

“Yes, quite.” Lorenz heaves a world-weary sigh. “I am simply worried about providing our guests with the best. A noble should strive for nothing less than perfection, after all.” 

Ignatz’s smile takes on a distinctly practiced curve, one Hilda recognizes all too well from spending so much time surrounded by nobles. “You do know that nobody will judge us based on the quality of our wine, right? And that’s not what the wedding is about, besides…” 

“No, but–” 

“Um… I’m sorry to interrupt, but…” Marianne fidgets in her seat, averting her gaze when Ignatz and Lorenz turn to look at her. “If you’re open to suggestion, then why not–” 

She’s cut off, unfortunately, by the sound of bells. Ignatz’s eyes go wide as his head whips round to the pendulum clock hanging on the wall. “Goddess, is that the time? I’m sorry, we’ll have to pick this up later; I’m needed in the gardens,” he says, detaching himself from his fiancé and hurrying away. “I’ll see you later, Lorenz!” 

“Goodbye for now, my love,” Lorenz says. “I will have your tea ready for you when you are finished.”

Ignatz calls out his thanks and leaves the room, and Lorenz turns and heads out the opposite door, once again leaving Marianne and Hilda alone to work. 

“Looks like Ignatz is learning a thing or two about being a noble,” Hilda says. “Did you see the way he faked that smile? Ooh, I hope Claude hasn’t been giving him lessons.” 

Marianne shakes her head. “It’s something you have to learn quickly, I suppose,” she says. “I just feel bad that I couldn’t help them…” 

Hilda shrugs. She’s sympathetic too, she really is, but there are some things that just can’t be helped. “I’m sure they’ll figure it out. They’re just stressed out right now, but they’re good to each other. And _for_ each other.” 

Marianne nods. “That’s true,” she says. 

“Now, let’s stop trying to solve their problems and get back to ours.” Hilda leans back over the table, charcoal still in hand, and starts to sketch. “I think you’re right about the bags, but we still have to figure out what we should put in them…” 

Marianne smiles. “I think I have an idea.”

* * *

Choosing flowers should not be this difficult. 

Ignatz stands in the garden, eyes darting back and forth as various florists present him with options for the reception bouquets. There are white lilies, blue and purple and pink hydrangeas, marigolds and violets and dahlias, chrysanthemums of every colour imaginable.

But what to choose? What will look best on the tables, in the wedding bouquet, in their suit lapels? Should they stick to one colour, or go with a palette of two? Three? Will they have to match the wedding colours, or can Ignatz get a little more creative with them?

At first, he had been happy to take this task on himself. _You have the perfect, most refined aesthetic eye of anyone I have ever met, my love_ , Lorenz had told him – and he had been inclined to agree, after nearly a decade of refining his artwork and dedicating himself to the study of beauty. Now, however, it is precisely that dedication that makes this task so harrowing. It is a curse, truly, that he has been blessed with an eye for aesthetics that his fiancé loves so much–

“Hey, Ignatz! You doin’ okay there, buddy?” 

Raphael’s presence is a welcome interruption. It’s enough to distract Ignatz for a moment and finally, finally allow him some time to breathe. 

“Whoa, hey. You guys are awfully close to him, there,” Raphael says. He walks over, slowly nudging himself between the florists and Ignatz to create a little more space. “He looks kinda nervous. Maybe we should all take a break?” 

“Yes! I mean – yes, Raphael, that’s an excellent idea.” Ignatz bows his head to the florists. “Apologies. Can we resume this in a half-hour?” 

“Of course, Master Victor,” one of the florists says. They return his bow, then each of them walk off in turn, one after the other in a practiced march. Like ants all in a row. 

Ignatz deflates. “Thank you, Raphael.” 

“Aw, it’s no big deal.” Raphael backs off, smiling that big, reassuring smile of his as he moves to sit on the garden wall. “What’s got you so worked up, anyway?” 

“It’s the flowers,” Ignatz admits. He tries not to frown, but he can’t help but feel as if his misery is apparent on his face anyway. “I can’t decide which ones we should use as decorations.” 

“Huh. Is that all?”

Is that all? Ignatz blanches. “It’s a very big deal, Raphael! There are so many things to take into consideration – colour, size, petal shape, personal preference… I want everything to be perfect for Lorenz. Nothing less than that will do.” 

“I see.” Raphael frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulls at the material of his shirt (they really should have made alterations to the clothes they’d lent him; this may end up being the third shirt Raphael has torn since his arrival). “I don’t think you have to worry too much about that.” 

He stands up and walks over to one of the nearby hedges. Ignatz follows, spluttering behind him. “What do you mean?” 

“Look.” Raphael plucks one of the flowers from the hedge – a single red rose – and holds it in front of Ignatz. “Lorenz loves roses, right?” 

And that’s it. It really is as simple as that, isn’t it? Ignatz can’t help but laugh, a nervous reaction more than anything else. “Y-yes! Yes, he does.” 

“Then I think you should go with roses.” 

Raphael grins. Ignatz takes the rose from him with a smile, feeling lighter than he has in days. “You know what, Raphael? I think you’re right.”

* * *

The Gloucester kitchens are even bigger than Lysithea had guessed. 

She supposes, in hindsight, that she should have guessed, given the ostentatious meals they’ve taken and the territory’s significant culinary history. Still, Lysithea feels a pang of resentment that House Ordelia’s kitchens had never been this large, if only because she would have had an easier time sneaking sweets from them when she was a child. 

She is pleased, however, when the cooks and kitchen hands give her her own station to work at. It’s as spacious as it is well-stocked, which means it’s worthy of her talents. 

She gets to work right away, recalling every recipe she had memorized in her youth, and some she had come to perfect over the years. Lysithea has a pretty good idea of what Ignatz and Lorenz like by now, and though she would prefer a sweeter cake, she knows that in this one specific circumstance, she shouldn’t go overboard with the sugar. 

But, well… maybe a little bit extra wouldn’t hurt. 

The first cake comes out perfectly-baked. Naturally. Lysithea smiles to herself as she samples the first slice. It’s good, but it lacks a certain amount of flavour that she knows Lorenz will demand.

The second is better. The third is even better than that, but the lemon she’s added is still a touch too subtle. Lysithea scoffs, then goes at her fourth attempt with renewed vigor and three times the lemon zest.

“ _A noble’s cake must be bursting with unique flavour!_ ” She says as one of the other cooks compliment her latest attempt. Lysithea puffs out her chest and presses a palm to it. “ _We simply cannot serve our guests a bland cake!_ ” 

The impression earns her a few laughs, which Lysithea basks in moment. She nearly jumps out of her skin, however, when she hears a very distinct clearing of the throat behind her. 

“Gah! L-Lorenz! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” She turns, affronted, to see Lorenz standing there with an amused smile on his face. Ignatz is by his side, biting his lip and very clearly trying not to laugh. 

Lysithea’s face heats. 

“Go on, laugh it up,” she says, although Ignatz shakes his head profusely. “I’m guessing you’re here to sample the cake?” 

“That was the intention, yes,” Lorenz says, still smiling. “Though if you are worried this one is too bland…” 

“Nonsense.” Lysithea turns on her heel, hair whipping around, and cuts them each a slice. “This is the best one yet.” 

“I’m looking forward to trying it,” Ignatz says. The look on his face is completely sincere as he takes his piece, eyes shining behind his glasses. Lysithea watches him sever a small chunk using the side of his fork and practically trembles with anticipation as he lifts it to his mouth.

Ignatz chews slowly. Lorenz takes his bite as well. They both hum as they chew, and nod as they swallow. 

It’s a little eerie how in sync they are.

“It’s good!” Ignatz says. “But it’s a little…” 

“Overpowering.” Lorenz frowns. “Perhaps a touch less lemon, or…” 

“I think it’s missing something,” Ignatz says. Lorenz hums his agreement. Instinctively, Lysithea bristles. 

“Oh? And what would that be, Mister Cake Expert?”

“Ah! S-sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Ignatz says. He grins sheepishly. “I just mean that it could use a secondary flavour. Something light and subtle to compliment the lemon…” 

“Yes! I was thinking the same thing,” Lorenz says. “My love, you have such a wonderfully refined palette…” 

“Ugh. Please don’t do that in front of me,” Lysithea says, turning away as they lean into each other for a quick kiss. 

They’re right, though. Something _is_ missing, and the lemon is far too strong. She knows this, but hearing someone else say it is… annoying. Regardless, she’ll have to try again. 

“I’ll take what you said into consideration,” she says, as if she doesn’t completely agree with Ignatz’s criticism. “Just… go be lovey-dovey somewhere else. Come back in an hour and I’ll have another cake ready for you.” 

They pull away from each other. Ignatz bows. “Thank you, Lysithea.”

Lysithea tries to sneer, but all she ends up doing is looking away. “...You’re welcome. Now leave me be.”

* * *

“And… done!” 

Hilda pulls the charcoal away from the page with a flourish. After hours of debate, deliberation, and drafts, she’s finally perfected the design for the wedding favours. 

Marianne clasps her hands together. “Hilda, it’s gorgeous!” 

They look down at the page, eyes roaming over the little sketches of materials, the detailed lists of what they’ll need, the diagrams of how to assemble it all, and finally the finished product: tiny little see-through satchels, three to a bunch, each one containing a different blend of tea and tied together with satin ribbon. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Hilda says, bowing in her seat as she soaks up Marianne’s praise. When she straightens up, she tosses the charcoal on the table and flops down against the back of the couch. “I’m just glad we’re finally done. That took _way_ too long.” 

“It did last a little bit longer than expected, but it was fun,” Marianne agrees. “You must be tired from working so hard, Hilda.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Hilda stretches and yawns. “I’m beat.” 

“Then here, let me clean up for you…” 

“Aw, Marianne, you don’t have to do that,” Hilda says, and not just because she’s worried Marianne will make a mess of it. She sits up and starts gathering the pages together, stacking them together neatly and tapping the bottom edge against the table to keep them straight. “I’ve got a whole system for organizing this stuff, anyway. You run along and go play with Dorte or something; I know you’ve been dying to take him out today.” 

“Oh!” Marianne leans back a bit, startled. “Are you sure?” 

“Sure as I’ve ever been. Now go on, get out of here.” 

The smile Marianne gives Hilda as she stands makes her think that all this extra work may have been worth it, after all. “Thank you, Hilda. Um, would you still like to have tea with me later?” 

“You know it.” Hilda winks. “Make sure you get the good stuff, though. I know Lorenz has been holding out on us.” 

Marianne giggles behind her hand. “I’ll do my best,” she says, turning and waving to Hilda as she leaves the sitting room. 

“… _Wow_.”

An all-too-familiar voice sounds out behind Hilda, accompanied by light footsteps against the carpeted floor. “Do my eyes deceive me, or did I just _actually_ witness Hilda Valentine Goneril offer to clean up by herself?” 

“Shut up, Claude.” Hilda throws an arm over the back of the couch and turns to glare at her dear old friend over it. “What do you – uh-oh. Why is your face like that?” 

Claude looks at her with no trace of his usual smile. He’s grimacing, looking as though he’d just spent the last several hours confined to a library with nothing to read. Tortured. Hilda pats the space next to her, and Claude comes around to flop backwards into it. “Come on, tell your old pal Hilda what’s wrong.” 

Claude sighs. For once, he doesn’t bother with the pretense of being okay, nor does he try to deflect. “Lorenz asked me to be his best man.” 

…Ah. “Oh, sweetie,” Hilda simpers, placing a reassuring hand on Claude’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“I have to write a speech.” 

Hilda forces a smile. “That’s not so bad, is it?” she tries, voice lilting in a way she hopes sounds sympathetic. “You’re good at speeches! You gave them all the time during the war, and we all know how much you love the sound of your own voice.” 

Claude almost laughs, but it comes out as more of a derisive bark. “He told me I’m not allowed to say anything mean about him.” 

“Oh, dear.” Hilda rubs his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Claude. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure my eulogy for you is entertaining enough to make up for how much this speech is gonna suck.” 

That, finally, gets Claude to smile. “Thanks, Hilda. You’re a true friend.”

* * *

Days pass. Slowly, plans start to come together: the decorations have been decided on, Lysithea’s progress with the cake has been steady, Hilda and Marianne have finished the prototype for their wedding favours, and the decorations have been planned and sketched out. In spite of her initial reservations, Leonie is actually quite proud of all they’ve managed to achieve so far. 

Now comes the hard part: planning the wedding feast. 

As usual, Claude has taken charge of this particular task. He’s written up a list of everything they need, from appetizers to entrees to desserts, and planned more courses than are probably necessary, but Leonie decides not to point that out. Claude likes his lavish feasts, Raphael is more than enthusiastic about the amount of food, and Leonie will never say no to a free meal. Even Lysithea seems pleased with the amount of sweets that will be served once the main meal is finished. 

“But is there enough meat?” Raphael asks, after Claude has made his fourth revision to the menu. “I think we could probably add some to the appetizers. And the first course, and the second…” 

“Hm.” Claude frowns. “I see your point, but we’ve already got a lot, Raphael. Where do you think we’re going to get all this meat from?” 

“I don’t mind going hunting a few days before the ceremony,” Leonie offers.

“We can’t depend on that,” Claude says. “And besides, what if you don’t manage to get enough, or you get too much? I know it’s hard to believe, but there is such a thing as too much food.” 

“You’re crazy, Claude!” Raphael says.

“No, I’m experienced,” Claude retorts, grinning at Raphael. “I just don’t want to end up with so much excess we’d have to throw it away. A lot of what we cook won’t keep long enough to give away if we don’t eat it.” 

“Good point,” Leonie says. “Even if all these nobles _were_ willing to give the excess to the poor, we can’t guarantee it’ll make the journey…” 

“Desserts will keep,” Lysithea chimes in. “And I’d be more than happy to take some home. …For my parents, of course.” 

“I will make sure that any extra food is distributed to those who need it,” Lorenz chimes in from the other end of the table. He and Ignatz had entered the dining room for a spot of tea halfway through the discussion, and though they’re supposed to be taking a break from wedding planning after a hectic morning debating seating plans, Leonie suspects they’re still here because they enjoy the company. 

“Thank you, Lorenz.” Claude inclines his head toward him in an approving nod. “Looks like you’re getting your extra meat after all, Raphael.” 

“You’re the best, Lorenz!” 

Leonie nudges Raphael with a laugh. “Don’t tell him that or it’ll go straight to his head.” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

Claude laughs. “Trust me, you do not want to see what he’s like when you tell him he’s done something right. Now, back to the matter at hand…” He looks down at the menu they’ve drafted up. “Huh. Actually, I think we’re just about done here.” 

It’s true. They’ve got more dishes listed on their makeshift menu than Leonie has ever even heard of. Seafood from Daphnel and Riegan, rich vegetable and rabbit stews from Gloucester, and even an Almyran delicacy or two (‘traditional wedding dishes,’ Claude had called them). Looking over the list, Leonie feels more than satisfied with the amount of food that will be served, and even more so after the promise that Lorenz will account for the excess. But speaking of excess…

There’s something missing. One very, very important thing.

“Where’s the alcohol?” 

Both Claude and Lysithea sit up straight, posture so rigid Leonie isn’t sure they hadn’t just been hit by a Thunder spell. Claude shakes his head vigorously at her; Lysithea makes a cutting motion over her throat. It’s only then that Leonie realizes her misstep, and she turns to Raphael, trying to warn him, but–

“Oh yeah. We haven’t even talked about drinks yet, have we? My grandpa says that’s one of the most important things to have at a wedding.” 

The three of them deflate. Ignatz looks, hesitantly, over at his fiancé. Lorenz clears his throat.

“Ah, yes! The wine! Thank you for reminding me. I’ve managed to narrow down the list to fifty different reds, thirty whites, and…” 

Everyone at the table but Raphael groans. 

* * *

By the time the discussion ends, two hours later, the wine list still hasn’t been finalized and Leonie doesn’t think she ever wants to even _hear_ the word ‘wine’ again. 

“Leonie,” Claude says, leaning over the table once Ignatz and Lorenz have departed to tend to their next task. “I’ll leave the entire alcohol list to you as long as you promise to never, ever bring it up in their presence again.” 

“Ugh. Deal.”

* * *

Assembling the party favours had been the part that Hilda had been dreading the most. With a guest list as long as the Great Bridge of Myrddin, it might have taken weeks to get everything together.

Fortunately, it won’t take nearly that long now that she’s recruited some extra help.

A few days after Hilda sends out her material orders to any nearby shop who would take them, Raphael returns with two bulging sacks of materials slung over a shoulder and held tightly under an arm. 

“And here I was enjoying my little break, too,” Hilda says when he arrives. With a forlorn sigh, she sets down the teacup she had been drinking from and sidles over on the couch to make room for Raphael to sit. “I thought you’d be gone for at least another hour. How did you manage to get everything so fast?” 

“I ran,” Raphael says, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. He sets the bags down at Hilda’s feet; she opens one up to inspect its contents. “I wasn’t about to leave you waiting for me.” 

“That’s sweet and everything, but the whole _point_ of me sending you out to pick everything up alone was so that I could relax a while.” Hilda heaves another exasperated sigh, then looks up from the contents of the first bag. “I guess there’s nothing for it, then. Be a dear and tell the others to meet me in the dining room, will you? We’re going to need a lot of space.” 

* * *

The dining hall is not empty when Hilda arrives. Claude sits at one end of the table, all alone and hunched over a sheaf of parchment, the tip of his quill sucked between his lips. 

“Working on your speech?” Hilda asks as she passes by and sets her bags at the other end of the table. 

“If by working, you mean starting over for the sixth time, then yeah,” Claude says. He runs a hand through his hair and leans back, head turned toward the ceiling. “Lorenz keeps asking me to rewrite it.” 

“You just can’t resist trying to sneak in a few insults, can you?” 

“They’re not insults, they’re teases. Big difference, Hilda.” 

“Uh-huh. What have you got so far?”

Claude clears his throat. Hilda starts unpacking. “Friends, family, loved ones…” 

“Skip the intro; that’s not the part I’m interested in.” 

“Right.” Claude grins. “Okay, how’s this: ‘I’ve known Lorenz and Ignatz since we were students at the Officer’s Academy.’” 

“Good start. Then what?” 

“‘Of course, back then you could hardly have called Lorenz and me friends. In those days, he was far more interested in chasing me down the halls and sticking his pompous nose into my business than he ever had been in tea with his beloved.’” 

Hilda rolls her eyes. “You’re not actually going to say that.” 

“That’s what editing is for, Hilda.” Claude grins. “But okay, maybe the ‘pompous’ thing was a bit much. I’ll cut that. Then…” He clears his throat. “‘Ignatz himself spent most of his time occupied with thoughts of the goddess and what heavenly beauty she must have been possessed of, rather than focusing on what – or who – was right in front of him.’” 

“Ugh. You did _not_ just compare Lorenz to the goddess.” 

“Not directly. But it sounds like just the kind of empty complimentary fluff Lorenz would want, don’t you think?” 

Hilda laughs, but she’s saved from having to tell Claude his speech is complete garbage when the rest of her assembly line files into the room, led by Raphael.

“I think you’ve got a long way to go, Claude,” she says instead. “Just make sure you do it quietly, okay? We’ve got work to do.” 

* * *

Actually putting the favours together isn’t difficult once they get a rhythm going. Marianne helps Hilda lay everything out in little work stations, and then Hilda demonstrates how to put everything together: lay the satchel material out flat, carefully place three spoonfuls of tea leaves in each one – Seiros Tea in the gold satchel, Lavender in the white, and Rose Petal in the red – then she lifts the corners, pinches them together, and lets Marianne tie a ribbon around each bag to seal it. Simple, clean, and effective. Leonie and Raphael take to the task right away, and things proceed even faster when Ignatz and Lorenz join them an hour into their session. 

Claude is actually quite impressed with how well everyone works together. Hilda doesn’t exactly run a tight ship; she hardly complains when Leonie throws a couple of satchels at Claude’s head and calls it target practice, except to tell Leonie to make sure she doesn’t get tea leaves anywhere. “Seiros Tea is expensive!” 

“You know that it comes from Almyra, right?” Claude asks, looking up from his speech after scratching out an entire passage. “It’s weird that you’ve renamed it.” 

“Surely it’s not exactly the same,” Ignatz suggests, holding up a satchel for Lorenz to tie off. “There must be some difference between the two for them to have different names.” 

“Nope. As far as I can tell, they’re exactly the same. You Fódlans probably just can’t pronounce the actual name for it,” Claude says. Before Lorenz can challenge him, Claude says the word, making sure to enunciate each syllable. 

Unsurprisingly, not a single one of them get it right. 

Claude laughs. “Not even close. Ah, I do so love to be proven right.” 

“Speaking of the proper words for things...” Lorenz starts, standing up and walking over to Claude. “How is that speech coming along, hm?” 

“Oh, it’s great,” Claude says, putting every effort he can into sounding as sincere as possible. “See for yourself, Sir Nosiness.” 

And Lorenz does. He lifts the parchment from the table, eyes quickly moving back and forth across it as he reads. Claude watches with mild interest as Lorenz’s face goes from passively impressed to predictably annoyed. “Excuse me – I know I could be a bit much in our academy days, but to call me _pompous_? I–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Claude says, snatching the paper back and flipping it over. “Start over, right?” 

“If you please.” 

From the other end of the table, Hilda laughs. “I told you, Claude!” 

“That you did, Hilda.” He hopes she’s satisfied, because Claude himself feels as though he’s teetering on the verge of despair as he sets pen to paper once again.

Only this time, he has a most unwelcome editor hovering behind him. 

“You know I can write without you breathing down my neck, right?” Claude asks after the third time Lorenz clicks his tongue at a new word. 

“Yes, I am aware,” Lorenz retorts, leaning over to, quite literally, read over Claude’s shoulder. “I am simply ensuring you do not waste your time. If I can catch any unsatisfactory elements in your speech as you write them, then there will be no need for you to start over again.” 

Claude rolls his eyes. “Great,” he says through gritted teeth. “Then how about this? ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to test the limits of my patience…’” 

“ _Claude_.” 

“Don’t you have a cake to go test or something?” Claude tosses the quill down and throws his hands up in defeat. He turns to watch Lorenz out of the corner of his eye, and realizes, as Lorenz’s posture stiffens, that his shot in the dark has actually landed. Lorenz’s eyes go comically wide, and he stands up immediately, so fast that the chair he had been in nearly topples over. 

“Yes! Thank you for reminding me; Lysithea was expecting us nearly twenty minutes ago!” He rushes to the door, beckoning Ignatz to follow him. “Come, Ignatz, we mustn’t keep her waiting any longer.” 

The door closes behind them, and for one long, blessed moment, the room is silent. 

“...You know Lysithea is going to kill you for that,” Leonie says after a moment. 

“It’ll be worth it,” Claude replies. “Then I won’t have to write this damn speech.” 

* * *

All in all, it takes two afternoons’ worth of work to finish the wedding favours. They’re joined by Lysithea on the second when she finishes her work in the kitchen, and though she gets flour all over the first few she tries to help with, she still helps immensely in speeding up the process despite getting flour all over them.

It’s fine, though. A quick wipe down with a damp cloth is well worth the overall reduction in effort.

“…And that takes care of that!” Hilda exclaims, once she ties off the last ribbon on the last bundle of satchels. “The wedding favours are officially finished.” And thank the goddess they are, too; Hilda’s fingers have been nearly rubbed raw with handling ribbons and scratchy sheer material. 

“They look amazing!” Ignatz says, picking one of said favours up from one of the many trays covered in them. He inspects it with glee, and the growing smile on his face fills Hilda with pride. Of _course_ they look amazing – Hilda may not like to work, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t good at what she does when she decides to put the effort in. 

But of course, as has become routine with them by now, Lorenz clicks his tongue in disapproval. 

“What is it now?” Hilda asks, trying and failing to keep the edge out of her voice. Marianne places a light hand on her elbow, but Hilda ignores it. 

“The accents in the ribbon,” Lorenz says, rolling one of the beads at the end of it between his thumb and forefinger. “We have decided not to go ahead with pink as one of the wedding colours, as the carnations clashed with the roses. Isn’t that right, Ignatz?” 

“Oh, ah, yes,” Ignatz says. “That’s right. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but, well, I suppose it should match the flowers…” 

Hilda nearly decks him. Instead, she puts on her sweetest, most diplomatic and ladylike smile, and says, “Oh, right, of course! Silly me, I must have forgotten.” 

“But it’s okay! We’ll help you fix them–” 

“I am afraid we do not have the time for that right now, Ignatz,” Lorenz says. “I have arranged for another wine testing this afternoon, and the vintner will be here any moment now…” 

“I see.” Ignatz turns to Hilda, and to his credit, he looks appropriately apologetic as he bows his head. “Then perhaps after we’re finished…” 

“Oh, don’t you worry your cute little head about it, Ignatz,” Hilda says, resisting the urge to reach out and ruffle the hair on said cute little head. “We’ll take care of it, won’t we, girls? And Raphael.” 

“Of course!” Raphael says. Marianne nods placatingly. Leonie and Lysithea look far less enthused. 

“Thank you,” Ignatz says. “I promise to make it up to you.” 

“Indeed,” Lorenz adds. “Now come along, darling, we mustn’t keep them waiting.” 

He sweeps out of the room, Ignatz hurrying along in his wake.

* * *

“Okay, that’s it!” Hilda snaps. Claude flinches as she slams her palms down flat on the table and glares at everyone who dares to stare at her for it. “I’ve had _enough_! If I have to hear one more word about ‘ _wine tasting_ ’ or ‘ _delicate sensibilities_ ’ or ‘ _extravagance is a hallmark of the nobility_ ’ I’m going to shove his noble face right into the next batch of wine he tests!” 

She does an impressive imitation of Lorenz’s voice. Claude nods in approval; Marianne hides her laughter behind her hand. 

“I’m with you,” Leonie agrees. She flicks her wrist disdainfully. “And Ignatz is almost as bad! All his fussing and meddling and ‘ _oh, um, I don’t know’_ s are driving me crazy. It took nearly a week for him to decide he didn’t want rose garlands over the doors! _A week_!” 

“Aw, come on, guys, it’s not that bad.” As always, Raphael is either blissfully unaffected by his friends’ eccentricities, or he’s making an active effort to keep the peace. Claude isn’t sure which it is, but he’s also not sure he cares at this point. 

Lysithea stomps up to him to prod at his chest. “Yeah, well, he hasn’t come up to _you_ trying to change the cake’s recipe three times in the last two days. I thought I’d finally perfected it, but noooo, it’s always too-much-sugar this, or don’t-use-fondant that…” 

“Well, you do tend to over-sweeten,” Claude points out unhelpfully. 

“There’s no such thing as too sweet, Claude.” 

“I disagree, but I don’t feel much like arguing with you right now. Come on, guys,” he says, standing up and stretching his arms out, glad to finally have been granted a reprieve from writing his terrible speech. “We all knew what we were getting into when we signed up for this. Sure, Lorenz is high-strung and fussy, and Ignatz second-guesses everything…” 

“But they’re our friends,” Marianne finishes. 

“Exactly. They’d do the same for us.” 

At the very least, it gets Hilda, Leonie, and Lysithea to squirm guiltily in their seats. 

“Fine,” Leonie says, the first to relent. 

“I hate it, but you’re right,” Lysithea agrees, crossing her arms in front of her chest. 

“Hilda?” 

She sighs. “...Fine. But they’d _better_ put this much effort into my wedding.”

Marianne flashes her a smile, and Hilda looks away with a small ‘hmph!’ and a deeper blush than is wise for anyone to point out. 

“That’s the spirit,” Claude says. And, of course, now that everyone’s mood has been lifted, Lorenz chooses that moment to poke his head back into the room.  
  
“Ah! Lysithea, I forgot to mention – when you have a moment, I would like to go over some further refinements to the cake. Please do let me know when you are available.” He closes the door behind him, as quick to depart as he is to arrive. 

Lysithea rounds on Claude, dark magic emanating from her like sparks from a flame. “ _Claude!_ ” 

“Okay, okay! I’ll talk to him.”

* * *

By the time Claude manages to talk to Lorenz, he’s realized there’s no ‘good’ time to pull him aside. There’s always something demanding his attention, whether it be rearranging the seating plans for the five hundredth time, taste testing Lysithea’s latest attempt at icing (now that she’s forced him to choose a cake, lest he lose his tongue), or…

“Lorenz, I don’t think this is as important as you’re insisting it is,” Ignatz says, yanking his glasses from his face and cleaning the fog from them with the end of his sleeve. 

Claude frowns. Had Ignatz has just used Lorenz’s _name_? No endearment, no _darling_ , no _my sweet_ , no _my dearest and most beloved Lorenz_?

Something is wrong. 

“I must disagree, Ignatz. Our guests will be expecting the very best of us, and it is up to us to do our duty not only as nobles, but as hosts, to provide them with every luxury.” 

“Yes, I understand that.” Ignatz takes a deep breath. “But at this rate we’ll have rejected every winemaker in Leicester.” 

Ah. This again. Claude rolls his eyes, already sick of the conversation, and he’s only heard about thirty seconds of it (this time). So, he does what any good friend would do to save the situation.

He lies. 

“Lorenz!” Claude calls out, announcing his presence with wide arms and the most cheerful tone of voice he can muster, usually reserved for special occasions or particularly devious schemes. “There you are! For someone so important, you certainly are a tricky man to find.” 

As expected, both Ignatz and Lorenz turn to him: Lorenz, unamused, with a pointedly raised brow; and Ignatz with a tiny, pinched frown. 

“My apologies, Claude, but can this wait? We were in the middle of a very important discussion–” 

“Oh, I know.” Claude grins unabashedly. “And I’ll let you get back to it in a minute. I just wanted to inform you that I’ve finished writing your speech, and if you have some time to hear it out…” He turns his gaze to Ignatz, inclining his head expectantly. 

Ignatz picks up on his signal right away, his frown quickly morphing into a hesitant smile. “O-oh! That’s wonderful news, Claude. Lorenz has been so eager to hear your latest pass. I should probably let the two of you get to it.” 

It’s hard not to be moved by that little relieved smile, but Claude is careful to keep his own expression carefully neutral. Can’t have both of them give away the scheme, after all. “I’d appreciate that, if you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all!” 

“But dearest,” Lorenz starts, clearly hesitant to leave the conversation where it is. 

“It’s fine, Lorenz,” Claude insists. “I think Lysithea wanted to speak with him about how to decorate the cake, anyway. You’ll have plenty of time to resume your thousandth wine discussion when we’re done.” 

Ignatz nods. “Yes. Thank you, Claude, I’ll go see Lysithea right away.” He smiles and bows to Claude first, then Lorenz, before turning and hurrying away.

Claude almost laughs; he’d have a spring in his step if he were just saved from that nightmare of a conversation, too. As it is, however, he’s afraid he’s just opened himself up to his own special kind of verbal torture.

It’s for the greater good, he reminds himself. 

“So,” he says, clapping Lorenz on the shoulder. “That speech. Meet me in my suite in about… fifteen minutes? I’ll make that tea I owe you from our last little one-on-one.” 

Lorenz does not look pleased, but he relents with a slow nod and the most minute relaxation of the shoulders. “Very well. Thank you, Claude.” 

* * *

Fourteen and a half minutes later, Claude hears a knock at the door. 

“You’re early,” he says as he stands aside to let Lorenz in. 

“You said fifteen minutes,” Lorenz says. “And by my estimation, it has been exactly that long. A noble must–” 

“Must not keep a friend waiting, yeah,” Claude finishes, rolling his eyes fondly. As always, Lorenz is charmingly predictable, and Claude has accounted for it: the tea is already ready, the pine needle blend poured into two cups set at opposite ends of the table. 

Lorenz enters the room. “I see you cleaned up,” he says, audibly impressed. If anyone else had pointed out the lack of disarray in the room, Claude may have taken it as a jab at his ‘slovenly’ behaviour, but this time, he recognizes it as the compliment it is. 

“I did,” Claude confirms. “Now sit.” 

Lorenz does as he’s told, taking his place at one end of the table while Claude sits at the other. He lifts his tea to his lips, blows on the surface of it, and takes a delicate sip. “My, my!” He says, brows rising high as a smile spreads across his face. “The ideal temperature, the proper balance of sweet and bitter, and steeped to perfection. You have learned a thing or two about the art of preparing tea, it would seem.” 

Claude shrugs. “Actually, I just drink this a lot at home,” he says. “But we’re not here to discuss tea, are we?” 

“Ah, yes. Right you are. Please, proceed with your speech.”

Lorenz sets his cup down and folds one leg over the other, resting his hands above his knee. He watches Claude expectantly, and Claude meets that stare with a wide, toothy grin. 

“Right, the speech,” he says. “I’ll get to that in a moment. First of all, I’d just like to say that I’m so glad you could join me for tea.”

Lorenz frowns. That is clearly not what he had expected to hear. “Claude—”

“It really has been too long since the two of us talked, hasn’t it? I know you have a busy schedule, what with all the wedding planning and everything, so it truly is an honour that you’ve graced me with your presence this afternoon.”

Lorenz sighs. “You haven’t finished the speech at all, have you?” He lifts a hand and runs it through his hair. “This is all some sort of elaborate scheme.” He shakes his head, hair falling neatly back into place. “Go on, then. What are you planning?” 

It’s the fastest Claude has ever been seen through. He has to admit, he’s impressed; but even if he hadn’t laid it on so thick, a part of Claude is certain that Lorenz would have been able to pick up on his scheming anyway. They’ve come to know each other well, after all. 

In any case, there’s no point in hiding now. “Nothing insidious,” Claude assures him.

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“Still don’t hold back, do you?” Claude frowns, fake-hurt. “I thought we got past all that years ago.” 

“Claude, I implore you not to waste my time,” Lorenz says. “As you acknowledged, I am very busy.” 

“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”

Lorenz’s expression shifts from mild annoyance to cautious intrigue. He lifts his teacup and takes another slow, shallow sip. “Oh?” 

“Yeah. No offense, but you’ve been a little bit… high-strung lately.” And oh, is that ever an understatement. 

Lorenz frowns. “High-strung? Well, I… I suppose I have been a bit stressed lately, but to call me high-strung…” 

“Come on!” Claude laughs. “Lorenz, I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been driving everyone crazy with your constant nitpicking and flip-flopping on decisions. I actually had to stop Hilda digging through my things to keep her from poisoning you the other day, you know.” 

Lorenz balks. “You brought poison with you? ...Into my home?” 

“That’s not what I said.” Claude waves his hand dismissively. “And it’s not the point, anyway. The point is that we can all see how stressed out you and Ignatz are, so we thought we would offer you some time away from wedding planning.” 

For a moment, Lorenz stiffens. “Time away?” he repeats, nearly gawking at Claude. “You cannot be serious. The wedding is a mere two weeks away!” 

“And you’ll only be gone one.” This time, Claude is the one who takes a sip of his tea. “I’ve already written ahead to Derdriu and made the arrangements. Judith will meet you there, take you to where you’ll be staying, and you and your beloved will be free to relax and enjoy the sea.” 

Lorenz looks as if he had just jumped out of the sea himself, the way he gapes at Claude like a dying fish. “But – I – Claude, how did you–” 

“How did I arrange it?” Claude laughs, leans back in his chair, and winks at Lorenz as he lifts a hand to rest behind his head. “Oh, that was easy. As it turns out, I still technically hold the title of Duke Riegan.” 

“I… I see.” Lorenz swallows, looks away, and coughs into his fist in a poor attempt at appearing unaffected. “I do not know what to say, Claude.” 

“How about ‘thank you?’” 

“…Yes, I suppose that would be a good place to start.” Lorenz smiles and bows his head, low enough that the tips of his hair brush against the polished wood surface of the table. “Thank you, Claude.” 

“I would have preferred a ‘Your Majesty,’ or even ‘Your Grace,’ but that will do, I suppose.” Claude leans forward, elbows on the table, and pushes Lorenz’s tea back toward him. “Now drink up. It’s getting cold.”

* * *

At first, Lorenz had been apprehensive about taking time away from planning the wedding. Seeing the worry lines soften and fade from Ignatz’s face as he’d explained Claude’s scheme had done much to soothe his own anxieties about the whole thing, however, and by the time they were packed and ready to leave, Lorenz found he was quite looking forward to their little vacation. 

Unfortunately, all those worries had returned full-force the moment the carriage had set off. Even Ignatz’s hand over his own – normally a soothing, grounding presence – does little to calm the churning in Lorenz’s stomach. 

“They’ll be fine,” Ignatz tells him, though the wavering purse of his lips lends little credibility to his words. “They’ve been doing an amazing job so far. We should trust them.” 

“Yes,” Lorenz agrees. “And I do trust them. It is only that…” 

“You’re worried something will go wrong, and that because you aren’t around, you won’t be able to fix it.” Ignatz smiles wearily at him, and for the first time in what feels like ages, Lorenz feels as though he truly understands how tired his fiancé is. 

He wishes he did not feel the same.

“Yes,” he whispers, unable to do more to soothe his fiancé than admit his fears.

Ignatz rests his head on Lorenz’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. “I am too.”

* * *

By the time they reach Derdriu, Lorenz is feeling a little bit better. The scent of the sea and the light, refreshing breeze in his hair does wonders to relax him, even despite the creeping realization in the back of his mind that there is no going back now, that if something were to go wrong, he cannot–

“Darling,” Ignatz says, taking Lorenz’s hand and lifting it to his lips. “Everything is going to be fine. We’re here to relax, remember?” 

“Yes. You are right, of course.” Lorenz smiles in spite of himself. He takes Ignatz’s arm in his own and steps forth, ready to at last allow himself some peace of mind.

* * *

True to Claude’s word, Judith waits for them at the gates of the former Duke Riegan’s home. She leads them to their quarters with little fanfare but to tease them for being late – _“You sure took your time getting here, Gloucester boy”_ – and leaves them to settle in with a wink and a reminder of when dinner will be served.

The room is large, spacious, and well-decorated. It is very clearly a guest suite that has not seen use in some time – likely since before Riegan territory was entrusted to House Daphnel’s care – but it has been thoroughly cleaned and stocked with fresh linens. Judith, or perhaps Claude, have even seen to see that a selection of different teas have been laid out, with a variety of pots and cups to accompany them. 

And the frescoes on the ceilings – Lorenz snorts. They’re ostentatious, even by his own standards, but Ignatz seems fascinated with them, eyes shining and mouth open in an awestruck smile as he tilts his head back to behold them. He’s beautiful, gazing up at them with that twinkle in his eye, that boyish wonder that never fails to overcome him when he’s presented with a work of art.

Truth be told, Lorenz is envious. He makes a note to speak to his fiancé later about commissioning paintings on the ceilings of the Gloucester estate’s guest rooms. 

“It’s amazing,” Ignatz says. He takes a seat upon the bed, hands running over the intricately-woven comforter. “Not just the room, but Derdriu itself. We never did get a chance to see the city during the war, did we?” 

“Alas, we did not.” Lorenz joins his husband-to-be on the bed, taking his chin in one hand and caressing his cheek with a thumb. “It would seem as though Claude has thought of everything.” 

Ignatz closes his eyes, tilts his head into Lorenz’s touch, and takes his hand. “They really do care about us, don’t they?”

“They do.” This time, Lorenz is the one to bring Ignatz’s hand to his lips and delicately kiss each knuckle in turn, only to turn his hand over and press one last lingering kiss to his palm.

“Ah… Lorenz…” 

Lorenz grins and looks up at his beloved from under long, thick lashes. Slowly, he retreats, leaning back to give himself space to carefully untie his cravat.

“Come now, my love.” He slips the garment from his collar and carefully lays it aside, only to place a hand on Ignatz’s shoulder and gently coax him down to lie flat against the bed. “Let us not waste this precious gift our friends have given us.” 

Ignatz’s smile is like the sun. He slips his glasses off, sets them aside, and leans up to wrap his arms around Lorenz’s neck. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

He threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of Lorenz’s neck and pulls him down, carefully, into a long, deep, luxuriant kiss – and from that moment on, Lorenz worries no more.

* * *

In Gloucester, things proceed smoothly. Abnormally smoothly, in fact. Without Lorenz to constantly meddle in everyone’s affairs, or Ignatz to offer suggestions that end up being more a hindrance than a help, things have seemed almost… easy. 

“We should have gotten rid of them ages ago,” Leonie jokes as she pours herself a glass of expensive brandy. The same expensive brandy, Claude notes, that he’d pilfered from Lorenz’s study the night before.

She leans back in her chair, ankles crossed and propped up on the dining table. Claude follows her gaze upward to take in the decorations hanging over the great hall: ribbons and banners and silks draped over every wall, painting the room in reds, golds, and whites.

“No kidding.” Hilda snatches the bottle from Leonie’s hand and pours herself a generous serving. It’s the last night of freedom the former Golden Deer have without the grooms-to-be breathing down their necks, so she had gathered everyone to inform them that tonight, they were going to let loose and celebrate all the hard work they’d put in.

‘Celebrate’ meaning, of course, they were going to gorge themselves on dinner, grab as much liquor as they could find, and drink themselves stupid.

“I think this past week has been the most peace I’ve had since we arrived.” Lysithea says, just before she downs the last of her drink and reaches for one of the few dessert cakes still remaining on the table. 

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Claude says with a grin. He leans forward, snatches the dessert cake up, and takes a bite out of it.

Lysithea opens her mouth, presumably to chide him for it, but he pushes a different plate over to her instead, one covered in little peach tarts.

“These ones are sweeter,” he says, as if he’s done her a favour.

“But I wanted _that_ one,” Lysithea grumbles. She takes a tart anyway. 

“It’s too bad they’re going to be back tomorrow,” Hilda says, leaning forward on the table and running a finger around the rim of her glass, now half-full instead of topped up. “Couldn’t you have given them a few extra days, Claude?” 

“I didn’t want to put Judith through that. Besides…” Claude shrugs. Hilda pours him a glass of brandy. “I wasn’t about to have them come back the night before and suddenly demand we change everything. This gives us time to adjust.” 

“I don’t know if they’ll want to change anything,” Marianne supplies. She’s nursing a glass of white wine herself – her third now, at Hilda’s insistence – and her cheeks are tinged a lovely pink. “I think we’ve done well.” 

“That we have, Marianne,” Claude agrees. 

“They’re gonna love what we’ve done with the place!” Raphael booms as he returns from gathering another bottle – cider, this time. He places it down on the table and pops the cork with his thumb. Lysithea holds her glass out to him. “And I can’t wait for them to come back and see it all.” 

“We still have to finish putting up the decorations in the garden,” Leonie points out. 

“That won’t be too hard. It’s just a bunch of benches and chairs, right? I can lift those no problem.” 

“It’s not just that, Raphael. We have to set up canopies, hang more silks and ribbons, then put together the trellises, and then finish off the place settings inside…” 

“Hilda and I can set the tables,” Marianne chimes in. “I think she had some ideas for the centrepieces, anyway.” 

“Marianne, you’re too sweet.” Hilda does not sound particularly charmed.

Claude leans back, kicks his feet up, and rests his legs on the edge of the table. “Hey, now, I thought we were meant to be celebrating all we’ve done, not complaining about what we still have left to do.” 

“Yeah!” Raphael says with his biggest, widest, and possibly drunkest smile. “And we’re supposed to be celebrating Ignatz and Lorenz, too. Can you believe they’re actually getting married next week?” 

“Hard to believe,” Leonie agrees. “I never would have guessed they’d end up together.” 

“Me neither,” Marianne agrees. “I know they were friends in school, but I think they really kind of… found each other during the war.” 

“They did,” Raphael confirms. “Ignatz used to be so shy, you know? And he used to feel so guilty about everything, even when it wasn’t his fault. I think him getting to know Lorenz helped him a bunch with that!”

“He used to say things to that effect, yes.” Lysithea sips her cider, hiding the tiny little smile on her face behind the rim of her glass. “We often went on supply runs together. He used to go on and on about how much he admired Lorenz for being able to speak his mind so unabashedly. It was rather annoying.” 

“Yeah! He used to talk about how much Lorenz admired his art, too,” Leonie adds. “Said he appreciated everyone who pushed him to pursue painting, because I know most of us did at some point or another, but his whole face would light up when he’d talk about some detail or another that Lorenz pointed out.” 

“He was so hopeless!” Lysithea laughs. 

“Lorenz wasn’t much better.” Claude grins as he grabs the bottle of cider and fills his glass. “Remember when he used to nag at me for how shifty I was?” 

“‘ _Was_?’” Hilda snorts.

“Quiet, you. He used to compare me to Ignatz all the time.” Claude clears his throat and puffs out his chest. “ _‘How is it that you fail to uphold even the most basic of manners? Even Ignatz, a commoner, possesses more poise and grace than you ever could...'_ ” He shakes his head. “Used to drive me nuts.” 

“Oh! Yes, Lorenz would talk to me about Ignatz all the time over tea, too. He always had some story to tell, and he would get so… excited over being allowed to see his paintings.” Marianne laughs. 

“Did you know he asked me for relationship advice?” Hilda cuts in. She swirls the brandy in her glass and leans forward conspiratorially. “Or, well, I guess it was more like he complained to me about status or whatever stopping him from pursuing love a few times while he cleaned my room. So I told him, who cares! Obviously you’ve been in love with Ignatz for ages, so just kiss him already!” 

“And did he?” Leonie asks. 

“Of course not. Back then, you could lock them in a room together and they _still_ wouldn’t get the hint.” 

“Believe me, I tried,” Claude says.

“So how did they end up together, then?” Lysithea asks. “If Ignatz was too shy, and Lorenz was too concerned about nobility…” 

“Aw, that’s easy,” Raphael says. “They were in love, right? So they decided to just forget about all the stuff keeping them apart, and told each other how they felt.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest and nods sagely. “Ignatz worked himself up over it for weeks.” 

“That’s not surprising,” Leonie says. 

“Nope. But there was a war and stuff, so I can understand why it would be scary. You never know what’s gonna happen, right?” 

“Lorenz told me something similar.” Marianne folds her hands together over the tablecloth, looking down at them as she speaks. “He said that the war made him realize what was important, and if his father didn’t approve of him being with a commoner… then there were far more important things to worry about than status.” 

“That’s… surprisingly sweet of him,” Hilda says. “I guess the war changed us all.” 

“Not you, though,” Leonie teases. “You’re still as lazy as ever.” 

“I’m not lazy; I’m _delicate_!” 

“Sure you are, Hilda.” 

“Like you’re one to talk! You–” 

“Anyway,” Claude interrupts, not quite willing to deal with the potential mess a playful fight between two exceptionally strong (and exceptionally drunk) women could result in. “I’m happy for them. It took them forever to get here, but they did it. I don’t think I’ve ever met such a perfectly balanced couple.” 

“Quiet Ignatz and outspoken Lorenz,” Lysithea agrees. 

“They help each other see the best in others, and the beauty in the world,” Marianne says. “It’s something they taught me, too.”

“Oh, Marianne…” Hilda coos, sidling up to her and wrapping her arms around Marianne’s shoulders. 

“They really do bring out the best in each other.” Raphael’s grin spreads wide over his face as he folds his arms over his chest. “Ignatz wouldn’t be nearly as confident without Lorenz around.” 

“And Lorenz would be about a hundred times more obnoxious if Ignatz wasn’t there to humble him,” Leonie adds. 

The table falls silent. Claude looks out at each of his friends’ smiling faces as they stare off into space, reminiscing about old times and contemplating how happy they all are, both for Ignatz and Lorenz coming together at last, and for themselves for the privilege of being a part of their story.

And this, Claude thinks, is what weddings are all about. 

He raises his glass. “A toast, then.” 

Hilda grins. She lifts her glass into the air, too, fast enough that her brandy nearly sloshes over the edge and stains her sleeve. “To Lorenz, our favourite pain in the ass!” she cheers.

“And to Ignatz, the only man sane enough to marry him!” Lysithea adds, standing and raising her glass as well.

“To their marriage, and all the happy news we’ll be hearing for years to come.” Claude smiles.

“And...” Leonie starts, voice rising high above the rest. “To getting through this fucking wedding alive!”

Six sets of voices cheer in unison: “To Ignatz and Lorenz!”

* * *

The trip home from Derdriu is pleasant, if long. All the tension that had been present on the journey to Riegan territory has vanished, and now when Ignatz feels Lorenz leans against him, he knows it is not to seek comfort, but because he desires a light nap. 

The scenery passes by, ever-changing, as the carriage travels across wide, expansive patches of farmland. Ignatz finds himself longing for a paintbrush and canvas, much as he’d had when he’d watched the sun rise over the sea after their first night in Derdriu. He hadn’t been able to capture the scene in that moment, but he had managed to procure enough supplies in town that he was able to paint the next morning, after all.

That painting – the one of Lorenz, asleep in bed and framed by a halo of morning sunlight, has been carefully tucked away into one of his bags. Something for them to hang in their bedroom once they get home: a reminder of happy times, and a herald of those still to come. 

Ignatz turns his head and presses a kiss to Lorenz’s jaw, careful not to wake him. He deserves to enjoy these last few peaceful moments before the chaos of their wedding envelops them once more.

* * *

Returning home is strange, after so long away. Although it has only been a week, in reality it feels much longer, and not only for how happy Lorenz had been.

It is like entering an entirely new world. 

The halls have been lavishly decorated, draped from entrance to exit in fine fabrics and exorbitant garlands. Ribbons, beads, gold cord; candles, long and short, striped with multicoloured wax. Lorenz cannot help but gape at them when he gets close enough to inspect the first, and Ignatz is not far behind. 

“You like them?” comes a voice from up ahead. Lorenz drags his gaze away to find Leonie walking toward them. 

“I… I will admit, I am impressed,” he says, clearing his throat and trying to correct his posture. 

“They’re beautiful,” Ignatz says. “Leonie, did you make them?”

“Sure did,” she says. “Hilda taught me. It took a while to get them right, but I’m sure we can find a use for all the misshapen ones. But if _that’s_ all it takes to impress you, you’re gonna love the rest of what we’ve done. Now come on, lovebirds, everyone’s dying to show off!”

She claps a hand on each of their shoulders and, quite insistently, pushes them in the direction of the gardens. Lorenz opens his mouth to protest, but by the time the words have formed in his mind, they’re stolen away again along with his breath.

The gardens are… exquisite. It is hard to believe they are the same ones he left behind merely a week ago, decorated as they are now with wooden trellises and artfully-draped ivy. 

“Goddess above,” Ignatz breathes, lifting a hand to his mouth in disbelief. “How did you manage to set all of this up? I don’t remember there being any trellises before–” 

“I’m good at woodwork,” Leonie says. “And it turns out Raphael has a knack for it, too.” 

As if on cue, Raphael comes around the corner, carrying a stack of chairs in each arm. “Hey! Ignatz and Lorenz are back!” 

“About time!” comes Hilda’s voice, chiding as it is fond. Lorenz turns to find her a short distance away, sitting at a table with Claude, Lysithea, and Marianne. She pours them each a cup of tea, fills two conspicuous extra cups, and waves them over. 

“Go on,” Leonie says, pushing both Ignatz and Lorenz towards them with more force than is strictly necessary. Lorenz stumbles, and is about to reprimand Leonie for being so rough with his fiancé (never mind himself), but she’s already turned around to help Raphael. 

Nothing to do, then, but stumble over to the tea table. 

“You sure took your time getting here,” Claude says, shifting over to make room for them to sit side by side. “You sure took your time in showing up.” 

“Where have I heard that before?” Lorenz asks, unable to keep himself from smiling. He accepts the tea Marianne offers him and takes a long, indulgent sip. 

“Can’t imagine,” Claude says. “So, how was the trip?” 

“Wonderful,” Ignatz says. “Derdriu really is beautiful this time of year. Being near the sea was nice. Thank you, Claude.” 

“Indeed. I cannot remember the last time I was there simply to relax.” 

“And you did relax, right?” Claude raises a suspicious brow as he takes a sip of his tea. 

“Of course,” Ignatz says. “But we’re ready to get back to work now.” 

“Ahh, must we?” Lorenz rolls his head to the side, a teasing smile on his face. Of course he knows they must resume their wedding preparations, but surely, a little joke would not go amiss. 

“Actually,” Lysithea says, butting into the conversation for the first time, a sly grin of her own playing at her lips. “You won’t need to. We took care of everything.” 

“Everything?” Ignatz’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. 

“Pretty much.” Hilda gestures to a rolled-up piece of parchment on the table. Marianne unfurls it and spreads it over the table, revealing the to-do list Ignatz had meticulously organized and written down. “There are still a few things left to do on the wedding day itself, or the night before, like arranging and hanging the flowers, but everything else is finished.” 

“Indeed.” Lorenz leans forward to get a better look at the list, eyes roving over each and every item on it, most of which have been either crossed out or checked off after completion. All that’s left are the few small tasks Marianne had mentioned, and…

“It seems the cake still needs to be assembled.” 

“I plan to bake everything the night before the wedding, and put it together in the morning to keep it as fresh as possible,” Lysithea says, not without a slight challenge to her voice. 

“Wonderful. And the wine…?” 

The table falls silent. Lorenz looks up to see Claude, Hilda, and Lysithea all exchange a pale, wide-eyed, fearful look. 

“Oh, no.” 

“We forgot–”

“ _We forgot the wine._ ” Hilda’s voice comes out as little more than a hoarse, high-pitched wheeze. 

Lorenz’s heart plummets. His stomach turns to ice. “You forgot…” 

“Lorenz—” Ignatz shuffles closer, trying to move into his field of vision, but Lorenz is too focused on what he’s just heard to pay him much attention.

“How could you forget—”

“Um, excuse me,” Marianne interrupts, quietly. She slides a hand to the middle of the table, her own small, careful method of drawing everyone’s attention. She looks remarkably calm for how thick the air is with nervous tension. “I, um… I know you’ve been worried about the wine, Lorenz, but why don’t you serve what we had at the engagement party?” She smiles hesitantly, shifting in her seat as she gains confidence in her speech. “I really liked it. The white was one of the best I’ve ever had.” 

Everyone stares. Marianne’s cheeks darken, and she turns away, suddenly flustered. “Or – or not! I’m sorry, I just thought…” 

“No.” 

Five pairs of eyes turn to Lorenz. He clears his throat, shakes his head. Takes a deep breath. “No, Marianne, there is no need to apologize. That was… that is a wonderful suggestion.” 

All the tension at the table snaps. Lorenz can hardly believe himself. How had he not realized until now? That wine had been good enough to serve to his friends before; what reason could there be for it not to be good enough now? White, red, or rosé, it had hardly mattered; each bottle had been of the utmost quality, the finest that Aegir had to offer. 

...Ah. Aegir. 

All too quickly, the excitement of finally settling on an appropriate wine leaves Lorenz, seeping from him like moisture from rotten wood. “I have very little left, I am afraid. The few bottles I had were given to me as gifts from Ferdinand on my last visit to his territory.” 

Suddenly, Hilda perks up. “Ferdinand?” she repeats. “Why didn’t you say so? That won’t be a problem at all, then. I can handle it.” 

Lorenz frowns, brow pinching, but it’s Ignatz who addresses his concerns: “Hilda,” he starts,” Even if you do manage to write him, it’ll take more than a week for the wine to be delivered.” 

“He has a point,” Lorenz agrees. “The wedding is exactly one week from now.” 

“Well, duh! But like I said, don’t worry about it. I’ve got Ferdinand von Aegir wrapped around my finger. I can just show up on his doorstep and he’d be happy to let me in!” She smiles, tilting her head to the side – the very picture of innocence in contrast to the implications of her words. “Just let your darling Hilda take care of everything. I’ll have that wine here in no time.”

“...You would do that?” Ignatz asks. “Even if you were to take our fastest horses, it’s still a long journey…” 

“Then I won’t take a horse will I?” Hilda says. She leans forward, elbows on the table and chin propped up in her open palms. “Don’t forget, I learned how to ride wyverns for that stupid war.” 

She winks. Lorenz and Ignatz exchange a look.

“...Very well,” Lorenz concedes, after Ignatz gives him the slightest nod – all Lorenz needs to know that he is placing his trust well. “It is worth a try, and I daresay we will never hear you offer your assistance like this again. I may as well accept while I have the chance.”

“Hey!” 

Lorenz chuckles. “My apologies; I simply could not resist teasing you. Thank you, Hilda. Your assistance is most appreciated.” 

* * *

Six days later, the King of Fódlan arrives in Gloucester. He travels alongside a small, trusted retinue: familiar faces from the days at Garreg Mach, professors and knights alike, all of whom are pleased to congratulate the happy couple. 

A small feast is thrown to herald the king’s arrival. That night, everyone eats, drinks, and indulges as if they are all royalty. It is almost a celebration in and of itself, rather than a precursor to the wedding, but Lorenz can hardly complain when everyone is enjoying themselves so much. It’s almost strange, seeing everyone gathered together like this as if no time has passed at all.

And though they are all a little older now, and far more worn around the edges, in many ways, it is as if nothing has changed: Manuela drinks too much; Leonie and Alois trade stories about Jeralt; Catherine and Raphael arm wrestle; Claude talks Byleth’s ear off about Almyra, and has to be dragged away so someone else can have a turn to catch up with their king.

And yet, in other ways, some of them seem to differ: Seteth no longer watches Flayn like a mother bear would her cubs; Lysithea is happy to speak of Crests with Hanneman; Marianne and Hilda engage in long, in-depth conversations with Shamir. 

As the night winds down, Lorenz begins to tire. One quick look at Ignatz’s face tells him his husband-to-be feels much the same, and so Lorenz offers him his arm. Ignatz takes it, and the two of them exit the dining hall quietly.

“They all seem so happy to be here,” Ignatz says as they stroll through the hall. The quiet is nice after the noise of the party. Without the noise to distract him, however, Lorenz quickly finds that he is not merely tired, but exhausted.

“They do,” Lorenz agrees, unable to keep said exhaustion from his voice. “To think we were able to bring everyone together like this again.” 

“It’s nice. I feel like… like we’re doing something good.” Ignatz smiles softly. “Like we’re bringing a little bit of joy to their lives. Something worthwhile.” 

“Ignatz, my love.” Lorenz takes his hand. “Whether or not our friends had come, everything we have done to this point has been worthwhile.” He presses a long, lingering kiss to the back of Ignatz’s hand, and speaks quietly against his skin. “Whatever joy we have brought to them, you have brought that to me tenfold.” 

“And you have done the same for me.” He steps forward, wraps an arm around Lorenz’s waist. “I love you, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.” 

“And I you, Ignatz Victor.” 

They kiss in the low light of the moon seeping in through the windows, parting only when they must. Ignatz bids Lorenz good night, and Lorenz watches him leave.

Tonight, on their last night of their engagement, they will sleep apart. Tomorrow, they will spend their first night together as husbands.

* * *

At last, the moment arrives.

“You ready?” 

Claude leans against the large double doors leading out to the garden, one hand resting behind his head and the other holding a bouquet, densely packed and arranged with roses and baby’s breath. He’s dressed in fine silk garb, a gold sash slung across his chest and tucked into a second one around his waist, much like the one he had worn during the war. His head is adorned with a thin gold circlet, the first time since the engagement party he’s worn anything to denote his status as a king. 

Lorenz clicks his tongue. “I am,” he says. “But Ignatz is…” 

“Here! I’m here!” 

Lorenz looks up. Ignatz runs toward him, glasses fogged from exertion.

And Goddess above, he looks stunning. 

Dressed in his three-piece suit, bowtie askew and embroidered jacket only slightly rumpled, Ignatz is nothing short of radiant. He slows to a stop in front of Lorenz, adjusts his glasses, and smiles up at him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I… Oh.” 

Lorenz blinks. “Is something the matter, my love?” 

“N-no.” Ignatz swallows. His cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink. “You just. Wow. You look amazing, Lorenz.” 

“Thank you, but I am sure I can hardly compare to—"

“Not to interrupt this touching little moment, but…” Claude clears his throat and thrusts the wedding bouquet between them. Ignatz takes it with a laugh while Lorenz turns to Claude a touch reluctantly, unwilling to look away from the love of his life.

But he does, begrudgingly giving his best man the attention he’s requested.

“Of course,” Lorenz says. “It is time.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Claude grins and turns around. He places his palms on the door and throws them one last smirk over his shoulder. “Get ready, lovebirds.” 

And with that, the doors open. 

Music floats after Claude as he walks ahead to take his place beside the altar, a small enclave framed by garland-laden screens and trellises. In the center, hands folded in front of himself, stands King Byleth in all his regalia. 

Lorenz’s heart pounds in his chest. He can hardly believe this is real – that the moment has finally arrived. He turns his head to gaze down at Ignatz and is met with a watery smile, one that Lorenz no doubt is mirroring himself.

“Let us go, my love.”

He offers Ignatz his arm. Ignatz takes it, and they grace each other with one last nod before they walk down the aisle, side by side and hand in hand over their wedding bouquet. 

They come to a stop before Byleth. Claude stands on one side of the altar, Raphael on the other; Hilda, Lysithea, Leonie, and Marianne sit in the front row, bright faces fixed on their friends as Ignatz and Lorenz turn to face each other. 

The music stops, and the world narrows down to nothing but Lorenz, Ignatz, and their joined hands. 

“Dearly beloved,” Byleth begins, his voice faint in comparison to the continued thump of Lorenz’s heart against his chest. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of our friends, Ignatz Victor and Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.” 

Ignatz’s hands tighten around Lorenz’s own, and once again, the rest of the world fades away. Byleth speaks to them, but Lorenz hardly hears what he’s saying, so focused is he on the man in front of him: the man who, in a matter of moments, will be declared his husband. The man who steals his breath away every morning, and who holds him every night as he falls asleep. 

The man whom Lorenz loves, with all his heart, and cannot bear be without. 

Byleth clears his throat. It is the only moment in which Lorenz is able to drag his attention away from Ignatz, and he smiles, somewhat sheepishly. 

“Do you, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, take Ignatz Victor to be your husband?” 

“Yes. I do.” 

Raphael hands Lorenz a ring. He takes it, holding it delicately between his fingers, as if holding on too tightly will shatter the thin gold band.

Ignatz lifts his hand, splaying his fingers apart so Lorenz can slip it on.

It fits perfectly. 

“And do you, Ignatz Victor, take Lorenz Hellman Gloucester to be your husband?”

Ignatz smiles, brighter and more radiant than the sun itself. “I do.” 

He takes the second ring from Raphael, holds it up for Lorenz, and slips it onto his finger when he offers his hand. The ring is simple, yet elegant, thick and cool against his skin – a welcome presence, and a happy reminder that this is real.

That from this point on Ignatz will always be by his side. 

They move together as one: Ignatz up, Lorenz down. And they kiss, for the first time, as married men.

* * *

The ceremony concludes, the sun begins to dip in the sky, and the happy couple and all their guests move inside for the evening’s grand feast. Each course is laid out over several tables in the dining hall, fish and meats and fancy, complicated dishes laid out over the large, central one, with several other smaller ones laden with breads and cheeses and grilled and boiled and stewed vegetables. 

And, of course, in the center of it all is the wedding cake: three tiers high, covered in smooth white icing, gold ribbons at the base of each tier, and adorned with red and white roses. At the top, surrounded by more flowers, are two tiny wooden dolls, carved and painted to look like Ignatz and Lorenz and dressed in tiny fabric suits.

Once everyone has stacked their plate high with more food than they can possibly hope to finish, they retreat into the great hall, where tables and chairs have been set up in staggered lines before one long, central table where the grooms and their wedding party now sit. 

Silence falls over the room when Lorenz and Ignatz rise from their seats. All eyes turn to them, watching as Ignatz takes Lorenz’s hand and Lorenz clears his throat. “Good evening, my friends—”

_“Just kiss already!”_ Someone shouts from the crowd, to a chorus of cheers and applause.

And, though a touch embarrassed, Lorenz leans down to capture his beloved’s lips with his own. He is still far too giddy with the knowledge that they have now officially been wed to even think of refusing the opportunity he has been given.

Someone wolf-whistles. More people cheer. Lorenz hardly cares who is reacting, nor does he care how. All that matters is this moment: that he is here, and Ignatz is happy, and they are together. 

They come apart when someone clears their throat at Lorenz’s side. He turns, trying to suppress his bashful smile, to see Claude grinning at him.

“Settle down, you two,” he says. “I think it’s about time I gave that speech you so politely forced me to write, so we can let these good people enjoy their meal.” 

“Quite right,” Lorenz says. He steals one last quick kiss from Ignatz (and receives another wolf-whistle for it), then slowly lowers himself back into his seat.

“Thank you.” Claude bows his head, then turns to face the gathered crowd with his usual wide, easygoing smile on his face – only this time, it’s tinged with something else. Something Lorenz can’t quite place. 

“Friends and family,” he begins, spreading his arms wide, “loved ones and esteemed guests: thank you all for gathering here today to celebrate the union of two of our dearest friends.”

Claude pauses, allowing the gathered crowd to applaud. He waits until silence falls over the hall again, and then continues: “As I am sure many of you are aware, I have known both Lorenz and Ignatz since our shared days at Garreg Mach Officer’s Academy. Most of you, I’m sure, can agree with me when I say that I never would have expected to be up here by their side on their wedding day, let alone as Lorenz’s best man.

“And I promise that’s not for lack of affection for them,” he adds. A few guests laugh; Lorenz looks out at their smiling faces. He has a bad feeling about where this is going, but Ignatz’s hand squeezing his own reminds him to still his tongue and just allow Claude to speak.

Whatever inappropriate stories he is about to tell, it is too late to stop him now. 

“I’m sure many of you will recall that Lorenz and I didn’t exactly get along at the academy.” Here he pauses again, giving Lorenz a sly little wink. Lorenz’s face heats. “To be fair, he didn’t get along with most people back then; always prattling on about duty and nobility and manners and the like. And after having spent the last few months here helping these two prepare for their big day, I can’t say he’s changed much.” 

Lorenz opens his mouth to protest, but Ignatz squeezes his hand again and pulls him back to himself.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

Claude continues on, undeterred by Lorenz’s annoyance. “But in spite of all that, there was always someone there for him. Someone who never failed to spare a moment to sit down with him, share a pot of tea, and discuss the arts. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you who that is.” Another pause, and this time, it is Ignatz whose face flushes under Claude’s unrelenting grin. Lorenz runs a thumb along the back of his hand. 

“Ignatz was always a little bit of a mystery to me,” Claude says. “He was so private about his interests back then – or at least he tried to be. I couldn’t figure out if it was that he was ashamed or that he just hadn’t found the right person to bring him out of his shell yet. But the more time he and Lorenz spent together, the clearer it became it was the latter.

“And I suppose that’s really what I want to say here. Though it was hard to believe these two could find common ground when they seemed to have such vastly different personalities, somehow they managed to come together and create something truly good – not just for themselves, but for those around them.” Claude turns again to face the crowd. He lifts his wine glass, swirls the liquid inside, and smiles wider. “Lorenz and Ignatz Gloucester, you have shown us today that it doesn’t matter what sort of background we come from, or how different we may be: there is always some common ground to be built upon, and that love can blossom even in the most unlikely places.” 

He lifts his glass. “To your unending happiness, and a long and loving marriage.” 

Before them, dozens upon dozens of glasses rise into the air, candlelight gleaming and reflecting off their surfaces to paint the room in brilliant bursts of light. 

Everyone cheers, and everyone drinks.

* * *

When the meal ends and the cake has been cut, the music begins. Lorenz and Ignatz take to the dance floor, surrounded by a crowd of their family and friends. They dance, holding each other close, hand in hand and stepping and swaying to the rise and fall of the melody. 

Soon enough, others join them: Hilda drags Marianne out of her seat and onto the floor, and they laugh and smile the whole time they spin around one another; Raphael finds Bernadetta hiding behind Ferdinand and coaxes her out, only to lift her up and dance as she clings to his shoulders, face red and shy smile buried in his neck; Caspar and Ashe stomp around each other during a particularly lively song in something Claude isn’t quite sure can be called a dance, but they seem to be having fun, so he stays quiet. 

Others, like himself, seem content just to enjoy the festivities. Lysithea leans over one of the smaller tables to spoon-feed a piece of cake to Annette while Mercedes chats away to Ingrid beside them; Leonie has found both Catherine and Judith and locked them into what seems to be a drinking contest, with Alois as the judge.  
  
Claude watches them all, face warmed by wine and heart warmed by the comfort of being surrounded by friends. He’s content to enjoy this little moment of peace while he can, after having danced with each of his friends in turn. He knows that soon enough he will be returning home, back to the life of a king and all that that entails. It will be bittersweet to return to that life, lonely as it can be at times, after spending so long surrounded by his old friends. 

Still, he can hardly complain. Difficult as this all has been, it has been worth it. The court of the Golden Deer may not be the same as a court of nobles and royals, but it has proved every bit as trying – and every bit as rewarding, too. 

Speaking of his friends...

Hilda slides into the unoccupied seat next to Claude, a smile on her face and a bright flush to her cheeks. “You know, that speech of yours got dangerously close to being political,” she says.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Claude responds evenly, not even bothering to look at her over the rim of his glass.

“Uh-huh. All that stuff about Lorenz and Ignatz coming together despite their differences, and love blooming in unlikely places…” Hilda leans in close, snatches the wine glass from Claude’s hand, and takes a sip. “Real subtle there, Claude.” 

Before Claude can retort, they’re interrupted by an unfamiliar voice. “I, for one, thought it was nice.” 

Claude and Hilda look up at the same time to a head of red hair and a wide, sharp smile. One Claude finds himself mirroring, falling into it as easily as if it had never slipped from his face. 

“Ah, Sylvain,” Claude says, taking a moment to drink in the sight of his old classmate. “Or should I address you by your title now, Margrave?”

“Not unless you’d like me to call you ‘Your Majesty’ in return,” Sylvain replies evenly, his own gaze moving over Claude in turn. “Speaking of which, I’m surprised you were able to find the time to come here. A king’s time is precious, or so I hear. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

“Oh, no.” Hilda makes a face. “I know _exactly_ where this is going. Can you two go do this… I don’t know, somewhere else?” 

Claude laughs. “As if I haven’t had to watch you make eyes at Marianne for months,” he says. “Fortunately for you, my dear, sweet Hilda, I was planning to move this somewhere else anyway.” He turns back to Sylvain. “Dance with me?” 

Sylvain’s eyes widen infinitesimally before his expression slides into something smooth, practiced. “An invitation to dance by the King of Almyra? How can I say no?” 

He offers his hand. Claude takes it, stands, and leads him onto the dance floor. They’re nearly knocked over by Caspar flailing around, but thankfully Ashe catches him around the back and pulls him close before he can accidentally cause an international incident. 

“Sorry, sorry!” he calls, but Claude just waves him off. 

“It happens. Make sure he doesn’t drink too much, yeah?” 

“I think it’s a little late for that,” Sylvain jokes as he takes Claude by the waist. The music is already slowing, the last notes of the current song ebbing and making way for the next. As the first few notes of it crescendo into being, Sylvain steps back, starting the dance.

It’s easy, falling back into this kind of rhythm. What Fódlan dances lack in passion and creativity, they make up for in intimacy: Sylvain holds him close, and Claude presses in closer, happy to be led for once instead of doing the leading. 

Physically, at least.

The move together in time, step by step and bar by bar, until Claude finally speaks up almost a minute later.

“I’ve heard about your work,” he says as Sylvain spins him in time with the music. “Everything you’ve been doing in Sreng the last few months. It sounds like things are going well.” 

There’s a little glimmer in Sylvain’s eye, a familiar tilt to his smirk. “They might be.”

“You know…” Claude leans up, allows his voice to drop into something almost like a whisper. “I could use someone like you in Almyra.”

“Mm. Someone handsome and charming?” 

“Someone who knows how to talk his way into fostering peace between nations,” Claude says. “So, yes.” 

“Ah, I see what this is about.” Sylvain turns them again, hand tightening around Claude’s waist. “Are you offering me a position in your court, Your Majesty?”

But before Claude can answer, something hits him in the back of the head. He turns around, half-pulling Sylvain with him, and finds Hilda, still sitting at the same table – halfway across the room – with one arm outstretched.

He looks down. She’s thrown a fork at him.

“What did I say about political schemes?!” she yells.

Claude winks at Sylvain and slides back into his arms. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll talk later.”

“Can’t wait.”

* * *

Towards the middle of the night, as the guests start to tire and the desserts dwindle down to nothing, the musicians take their break. Chatter begins to fill the silence they leave behind while those who had been dancing congregate and crowd on the dance floor.

Hilda finishes her dance with Annette and immediately seeks out Marianne, who turns to smile at her from across the floor where she had been dancing with Mercedes. 

She’s stopped from making her way over by Raphael’s booming voice, however: “Come on, Bernadetta, they’re going to throw the bouquet! Here, I’ll hold you up so you can catch it better!” 

Bernadetta’s squealing protest does nothing to stop Raphael from hoisting her up onto his shoulders. Hilda laughs, uncharacteristically loud until she reins herself in; she has to turn around to hide it for fear of upsetting Bernadetta, but she just can’t help herself. The two of them look ridiculous.

Still… Hilda turns back around to see Lorenz and Ignatz gather in front of the crowd. They make a show of holding up the bouquet and shaking to draw everyone’s attention. For a moment, Hilda debates just leaving them to this silly wedding game – she has no intention of getting married anytime soon if weddings are _this_ much of a hassle – but she ends up lingering, curious to see if Raphael’s strategy will play out the way he hopes. 

And, well – because it seems kind of fun.

Ignatz and Lorenz turn away from the crowd. They count down: “Three, two, one…” 

And toss the bouquet into the air, back over their shoulders. 

“Get it, Bernadetta!” 

“Eep!” 

“Over there, over there!” 

“Watch out!” 

“Caspar, don’t push–” 

The small crowd surges forward, each and every person in it reaching up into the air to catch the bouquet. Even Claude – whom Hilda knows is also uninterested in marriage at the moment – and Lysithea, who would rather die than admit she wants to indulge in such silly behaviour, aren’t immune to the draw of the game (though Lysithea does glare at Hilda hard enough to shut her up before she can even get a word in). 

The bouquet arcs through the air. Hilda doesn’t catch it, nor does she see who does; all she knows it that _someone_ has, because the crowd begins to cheer and laugh and clap. 

And then it parts to reveal Marianne, clutching the bundle of roses and baby’s breath close to her chest. 

“Hey! Nice job, Marianne!” 

Raphael lets Bernadetta down from his shoulders so he can go clap Marianne on the back. He nearly knocks her over with the force of it, but she manages to right herself, somehow graceful even as she stumbles.

Pink-cheeked, she smiles up at him. “Thank you, Raphael.” 

“This is great!” he says, looking from her to Hilda and back again. “That means we’re gonna have another wedding, right? You and Hilda can even invite all your birdie friends! And Dorte!” 

“Oh, no. No no no _no_.” Hilda shakes her head emphatically, hard enough her hair sways wildly behind her and threatens to fall completely out of its updo. “I am not planning another wedding! This one was bad enough.” 

“Aw, come on, Hilda,” Claude says, nudging her in the side. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna say no to that.” 

She follows Claude’s gesture to look up at Marianne, who has buried the bottom half of her face in the bouquet, presumably to hide the laughter that her shaking shoulders betray anyway. And seeing that… 

“...Okay, fine,” Hilda says. “Maybe. Eventually.” 

“That’s my girl.”

“Congratulations!” 

  
  


* * *

The music has long since resumed by the time Lorenz and Ignatz make their way outside. They sit together atop one of the low walls in the garden, just to the side of the little altar their friends had constructed. The only light that falls on them comes from one of the few lanterns still lit, off to the side, and the moon and stars above. 

The air is cool and pleasant, a welcome change from the warmth of so many people gathered together. Though he and Ignatz have both agreed that they are pleased everyone is having such a good time, Lorenz is relieved to finally have a moment of reprieve. 

“Thought we might find you out here.” 

Claude leads the former Golden Deer up the wedding aisle. They join Ignatz and Lorenz at the wall, Raphael hopping up on it, Leonie and Claude leaning against it, and Hilda, Marianne, and Lysithea standing before them.

“I hope you weren’t worried about us,” Ignatz says. 

“Not at all,” Lysithea responds. 

“We thought maybe you needed some air,” says Marianne. 

“I think some of the guests are thinking the same thing.” Claude looks around. Indeed, a few more people have started to move out into the garden, presumably for some fresh air of their own. “Things are starting to wind down inside, and a few people have already gone to bed. I’m not long for it, myself.” He grins. “So we figured we’d come find you to say good night.” 

“And one last ‘congratulations,’” Leonie says. “You earned it.” 

“You sure did.” Hilda smiles, hands stretched above her head. Marianne moves in closer to her, and when Hilda lowers her arms, one finds its way around her shoulder. 

“Things turned out well, didn’t they?” Marianne asks. 

“Yep,” Hilda replies. “All that hard work was worth it.” 

“Speaking of which,” Lorenz says, before anyone else can respond. He pauses a moment to wait until everyone’s attention is on him. “I must thank you all for everything you have done for us. Not just tonight, but for the past months.” 

“We wouldn’t have been able to do any of this without you,” Ignatz agrees. He smiles, small and shy and reserved, gaze turned down into his lap. “So from the bottom of our hearts… thank you. Thank you, all of you.” 

“Aw, it was nothing,” Raphael says. “You’re our friends! We wanted to help.” 

“Even so,” Lorenz continues. “I fear words cannot express the depth of our gratitude. Especially since we had such reservations about allowing you to get involved in the first place.” 

“Don’t ruin the moment, Lorenz,” Leonie says. “We don’t need to hear about how you two thought we would ruin everything.” 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ignatz says, with a laugh and a shake of the head. “But really, we owe you all so–” 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Claude interrupts, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m going to stop you right there. The constant back and forth of ‘ _thank you_ ’s and ‘ _oh, it was nothing_ ’s are going to go on forever if we let it, and as much as I love being praised for being right all along, I’m afraid my presence is required elsewhere tonight.”

“Oh?” Lorenz raises a brow. “But where could you possibly–” 

“Ugh.” Hilda rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go talk _politics_.” 

“Oh, there won’t be much talking,” Claude says with a wink that makes Hilda cringe and shudder. “But that’s not important. If I recall correctly, our two lovebirds here have some, ah, _politics_ to talk about themselves.” 

“Claude!” Hilda scolds. Lorenz’s face heats; Ignatz squirms next to him and tugs his collar. Leonie shakes her head, Lysithea buries her face in her hands, and Marianne looks away. Only Raphael seems wholly unbothered.

“Yes, well.” Ignatz swallows thickly and smooths his shirt down. “I wouldn’t have put it like that, but…” 

“But you do have a marriage to consummate,” Claude says. “It’s okay, we all know.” 

Lorenz shakes his head and barely, just barely, manages to suppress his laughter. “How crude. But it is true that it is getting late, so I suppose we must retire for the night.” 

He stands. Ignatz follows suit, and together, they bid their friends good night. As they turn to leave, however, Lorenz bends down low, hooks an arm beneath Ignatz’s knees and around his waist, and sweeps him off his feet.

Ignatz’s yelp of surprise quickly morphs into jovial laughter, and he wraps his arms around Lorenz’s neck to meet him in one last kiss before his husband carries him over the threshold.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for sticking with us through this. I'm so proud of this fic, and of [Sparrow](https://twitter.com/delinquent) for creating such amazing artwork to accompany it! 
> 
> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
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